


The Kingdom of Blue Papayas 🔹(COMPLETE ✓)

by mumumuji



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Hermione Granger, Auror Offices, Child Loss, Curse Breaking, Deal with a Devil, Eventual Romance, F/M, Happy Ending, Horror, London, Lucid Dreaming, Muggle London, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Severus is a Demon, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 42,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29598777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumumuji/pseuds/mumumuji
Summary: Back on earth as a Demon, Severus needs to convince Auror Hermione for the memories inside her locket so he can free his Soul. The Devil is in the details.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	1. The Broken Coffee Pot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MindfulLady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulLady/gifts).



> Previously titled 'My Guardian Devil', but I changed the title.  
> Still a gift for @MindfulLady for the lovely idea which sparked my imagination to write this story. Thanks, Love x

That morning, something ominous is happening in the sky. The winds circle round and round and the leaves crackle hostilely in the trees. The bells of St. Martin’s Church ring thrice even though it is seven in the morning.

The beggars and brutes stretch across the wayside of King Cross Station. This Chosen Few are to inherit the Kingdom Highest but now make do with a couple of pounds clanking in their plastic cups.

Sometimes they find a strange coin with an engraved dragon on one end and a bearded sorcerer on the other. The _Fool’s Gold_ is tossed into the street and immediately picked up by some wizard boy who knows its price. An older witch scolds him before seeing the shiny galleon in his hand. Then she pulls him to the platforms without so much as a gentle brush of dirt off his cape. Generosity has been hard to come by since the end of the Wizarding War.

London’s finest folk blow between the masses of trams and trolleys, all too concerned with the arriving to work on time to mind the clock or the beggars. All are blissfully unaware of the magic surrounding them. To the trained eye of a wizard, a bus- thin as a whistle zips between the traffic from Leadenhall Market to Whitehall.

A wizard shakes away the remnants of Floo Powder as the Knight Bus makes its final stop in a nearby puddle. The water creeps onto his carefully pressed pants. He scoffs at the smell of frying fish in the distance and charms the fabric into dryness. Then he masks the horrible start to his morning with a cigar. He spins the bundle of leaves once and flicks his fingers whispering _Incendio_. When the blasted thing does not light for the third time, he curses:

_Blasted Grimalkin._

Suddenly, the bundle lights and burns with such a force that it nearly licks the wizard’s fingers to the bone. He shakes his arm only to meet a hard bundle of nerves and frizz. A golden crest in the shape of an “M” marks the shoulder of the impolite witch. Had it not been for that emblem, he would run his mouth at her.

The witch only adjusts her own briefcase and rubs her neck before carrying on. She shuts the door of a red telephone booth and muddles as her curls unfurl from the band the moment her feet hit the dark tiles.

The Ministry of Magic only exposes how unruly she looks. The floors sparkle from the vigorous work of a zinging mop against her chaffed boots. The marble centaur, polished to a shine, laughs at her crumpled cheeks. She will not notice until she reaches her office and Draco casually spiffs her up with his usual charms.

Brown and navy cloaks ghost across the mirrored corridor. The nail file zips the prestigious fingertips of Klava the secretary as Hermione grabs a card from her desk and punches in her arrival time over the horn of a miniature unicorn statuette. The elevator finally ascends from the fourth, left interior corridor and opens before her tired eyes.

“Hold the door!” A man in black, half-awake stumbles in alongside her. By habit, he sweeps the darkened bangs over the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.

She adjusts his tie with a quick incantation and they exchange friendly glances. The red fabric weaves itself into a cross under the white bunny ears of his dress shirt. Harry Potter can afford to leave any boutique on Oxford Street with the attire of their front-window mannequin. However, it is heartening he still allows her to fuss over his appearance like a first-year at Orientation.

“The Queen Mary’s Gardens were a hit with the kids. Thanks for the suggestion,” The wizard rubs the sleep from his green eyes. “Gin can’t wait to see the Osaria Rose exhibit in the East End.”

She nods.

“Shite, you took your wife to the Mistress Gardens?” A voice pops as soon as the doors open on Level 2. “Harry, Harry.”

One moment later and Hermione's curls wrap tightly above her head and her shoes become polished to look as spotless as the Ministry Badge on Draco's chest. She pulls off the matronly updo and snaps at him for making her look like his mother (praise her, Lucifer).

“The Minister planting roses for his secret Mistress is only a scandal made up by the Quibbler for reads."

“If we didn’t know Luna well enough, I’d say so too. But there’s always some truth to those wacky articles she publishes,” Harry adds.

The Staff Room is quiet until Hermione slams the coffee machine closed with her fist. The lid had been flipping around due to some prank Hex. Hermione bet Draco five galleons that no one would fix the glitch for a week.

“Next stop, the Hippodrome? Or should we practise your poker face before we play for big winnings?” 

He slips the five galleons out of his well-made wallet, but she’s too busy muttering and cursing the machine to notice her winnings floating before her.

“I can lie you know, I’m not a martyr!”

“Not saying you are, but it wouldn’t hurt to play dumb every once in a while.”

The lid presses down so hard it cracks the glass. The two are startled by their boss standing in the doorway with a certain look on his face. Hermione is sure no one can be fired for breaking a coffee pot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wondered where the official entrance to the Ministry is? Let me know if you've solved the case, I'm interested!


	2. The Devlishly Nosy Landlady

The Ministry building fades and the purple, brick flat appears before Hermione's eyes _._ She shakes her hands in the air while pacing in front of the steps, and kicks the rails. Frantically, she searches her pockets. The new code for her wards, inside her bag, back at the office. She drags herself downstairs, thankful that Mrs. Diggory is too old and too nosy to refuse her help.

The docile crone is (obviously) eager to ask why Hermione is home in the middle of the workday. Had she no crimes to solve or wizards to save?

Endlessly fascinated by her lack of sharing, she was all too happy to provide stories for her ladies at the mahjong club about the world-famous Auror she rents the flat to. Powered by her wild imagination and extensive knowledge of English Soap Operas, the stories come out very convincing. Hermione wishes she was half the witch Mrs. Diggory made her out to be. Nevermind, that she told her millions of times that she only worked for the Katalegein Department and had no right to chase after dangerous criminals through the streets of London. In Mrs. Diggory's eyes, Hermione was James Bond and Sherlock Holmes put in one.

The box of belongings floating behind her and the removed badge already give the Landlady her answer. Her pups Pip and Frodo tap at her knees and Hermione gives them a scratch behind the ears, holding back the hot tears streaming from her eyes. This is one of the times she is thankful she is an easy crier. Mrs. Diggory’s tone changes to pity and she rubs the witch’s shoulder.

“Oh hellion, it’s only a forgotten pass.” With those words, Hermione lets out a wail and sniffs her snot back into her nose. The puppies whimper and lick her fingers as she contains herself. The lady disappears into the room for her eyeglasses.

A strong smell of burning lavender and sage reaches her noise and the radio hums in the background. Photos of a young boy on a broom in the Quidditch field hang on the faded bluebell, wallpaper. Cedric Diggory, her old schoolmate, grins and waves a golden snitch in his hand. The terrible day combined with his terrible fate make her cry even harder and the Landlady returns to a blubbering mess of a witch surrounded by equally vexed hounds.

“Thank you, Mrs. Diggory.” The key is followed by a slip of paper and a small sack on galleons from a weaved coin purse.

_One jug of milk, chicken bones, a bar of laundry soap, a stick of butter, two boxes of Digestive biscuits._

“Make it three boxes,” she says as she slips an extra galleon into her palm. “For your tea.”

They both know very well Hermione has no time for tea with her hectic schedule. She will make time for it in the next three weeks as she devises a plan to get back into Robards' good graces and win back her job.

She walks to the store and plays back the events of the past day.

Last night, she was in her bed and before she realized it, standing in some dark space. The flames rise before her and a figure transforms from the blaze. Sharp points on the head and a flickering tail appeared in the ghastly silhouette. Its eyes glow like two opals even though the rest of the body was shrouded in shadows.

She’d never seen anything like it before and she grasped her chest. The figure was much quicker. It lunged towards her heart and the only thing she could do was pray it spared her as she did have her wand in hand. It knew her weakest spot. Her neck gasped as the thin chain darted from it, leaving a burn. When she woke up the next morning, her neck was sore.

To her horror, the chain and the locket are both gone. Really gone. And the burned links along her neck bleed in blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pip and Frodo, my favourite dogs <3 I could not help but bring them back.


	3. The Scoundrel Master

He pats the little budge in his cape pocket and pulls himself out of the rubble of a back alley. Giving his greasy, black hair a swipe and spitting on the wall, Snape swears off all members of the female sex. He had considered human women to be less spiteful than witches, but it turns out the only difference is a giant hand-print on his face instead of a hex on his arse.

He smells his own disgusting breath and makes his way to the Spot. The Spot was exactly as it sounded, the meeting place Snape was to go to when he finished his mission. If he had calculated correctly, then the little locket was the final piece of the puzzle. Then he would be free: sitting in a lived-in chair with a fresh cup of Earl Grey in one hand and a book in the other far away from Needle’s flat.

And no, Needle is not his real name, nor is he his ticket out of sleeping on London’s streets. He works by night at the very popular Fish and Chips restaurant in London and it so happened that this was the very place Snape met him.

Needle’s sister is the one to thank for the hand-print. She owns the small flat where he spent his nights for the past year. She thinks Snape is rather handsome with his dark eyes, brooding mysteriousness, and drawling deep voice. Much so, that she allows her brother’s Church Group friend to stay over for as long as he entertains her with the conversation. He has offered money, but she thought nothing of it. Luckily, their conversations are short and end up in a half-decent lay.

He enjoyed the lifestyle; mainly because his youth was spent gloating over poorly worded magical textbooks and brewing potions instead of fraternizing with witches and drinking the night away at the Three Broomsticks. Now he has had his fill of both and is growing rather tired. And he suspect’s Needle’s sister is growing tired with his ‘magical fairytales’ of a school for wizard boys and girls and the attack of the nose-less Lord.

Snape knows better than to tell women the truth. At times, his well-calloused tongue slips out an odd honest word and he pays for it in double. Even this morning, he resolved to leave in the only way he knows how to: in style.

Instead, he wakes up and makes three big mistakes. The first is making up some detailed story about breaking up with her because he has found a job in the south of England as a fisherman. The story is so convoluted that she plasters herself onto him and practically suffocates him with pillows. She kisses him with such passion that he briefly reconsiders his position.

Then makes his second mistake. He hands her an envelope with enough galleons to compensate for his time spent at the flat and the heathen turns completely diabolical.

“Was I your cheap hussy all this time? Why are you giving me money?”

His third mistake is explaining the costs of running a flat and that had she been a cheap hussy, he would have offered far less. And for that, he unjustly receives a slap across the cheek and a boot out the door. He is convinced that all the females in the world are witches.

He makes a note to himself, that last night was the final spent in the arms of their ‘fairer’ sex. He would soon be nuzzling his face in the comforting feather pillow in his old bedroom and would not have to share his blanket with anyone. The sounds of the sea lulling him to sleep and a half-open book bidding him goodnight on the bedside table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needle is only partially based on a real person, but very much on a fictional character. I wonder if you can guess!


	4. The Oily Gateway

On Barnet Road, stands a little grey diner with a little grey door and little grey windows. Small and inconspicuous on the outside, but utterly bewitching on the inside. Although so are most places in London to the Muggles. The magical population sees a different picture.

The inside of the little Fish and Chips restaurant is like a pop-up card. Layers upon layers of white and red banners with little mackerel weave overheard. The smoke from the kitchen rises so high, it is uncertain how tall the ceiling is.

And in that fog, the music of a thousand chewing mouths play out. The ladies on the posters in their flared dresses and coiffed hairstyles laugh so tight their cheeks twist inside out.

Rows of tables are saturated with colourful tablecloths and filled with grub. Seafood of all sorts and in such quantities, you’d think the Thames can run dry from one dinner service alone.

None of the customers seem to question the supplies. They are too busy pigging out. Comparing them to swine is a word used very weakly for they practically fatten with each and every bite. Their faces are turned from the amounts of food they’d eaten and still, they lick the horseradish sauce from the plates with such smack that their eyes flare up from the spice.

Snape steps over a fallen brute in a cheerful little apron with a lobster. His eyes are filled with delirium at his final meal. He knows better than to resuscitate the man. Nor does he have the power to.

“Combo number three,” Snape states as he leans against the counter. Some chap in a peppy green shirt and chinos nonchalantly checks the menu items on the wall. He holds up his finger, peaks into the kitchen and laughing, reemerges.

“Combo. Number. Three,” He repeats.

“Yeah mate, we don’t sell it anymore. Not even on the menu.” He thrusts some faded paper menu forward, which Snape ignores.

“Go in the kitchen and tell them it’s for combo number three.”

“Just out of there, we don’t sell ‘em. How about the Original?”

_The Original?_

Snape is about to lose his damn mind with the boy. It is painful enough to go through this masquerade once a week. To know his Boss is either a lunatic or the greatest con man of all time to not only resurrect him from the dead but to insist that the Fish and Chips spot was the gateway to Hell. Or perhaps he is the lunatic for allowing himself to believe it all.

Had he his Legilimency powers, he would be able to figure out the answer in an hour. But he doubts that even his ability would not have been able to decipher the madness.

A customer brushes past him and Snape is aware of a scratch on his neck. He brings his finger to it, an act done by habit. This time, to his surprise, the cut bleeds human blood. He was about to lose his wits when Needle pops out of the kitchen to pull the new lad aside.

“Bit of an imbecile that one, but the Boss insisted we hire him. Says he’s some cousin.” _They are all cousins._

Needle disappears in the back leaving Snape alone with the Cousin, who excuses himself to sort the condiment jars. Snape leans against the counter, noticing a little girl staring at him with a fry caught in her mouth. _The cut._ He grasps some napkins and blots the spot and the entire napkin bleeds blue. He has never been so surprised at his own blood.

He turns to the security mirror on the ceiling to check the spot. _Shit._ It had dried in a bloody mess all over the back of his shirt and he looks far worse than he feels. He did fall quite hard this morning after the heathen threw him out.

Now the little girl’s eyes are swelling up. He wonders if his Look was still up to date (the one he had scared his pupils with back in the day). Now it is amplified by a ferocious blue spot of blood trickling through his shirt. It is and now the girl is blubbering in her seat and her father was lecturing him.

Needle returns to ease the situation by offering the two a discount and a paid-for meal. He turned to Snape once they leave, leaning in real close.

“He won’t take the order.”

Snape's jaw clenched and a breath escaped his nostrils. He shuffles in his cape pockets and holds the locket forward. “I almost forgot. I checked the blasted thing. And if it doesn’t look like a memory capsule, let my teaching years be damned.”

“Knew you’d find something to it.”

Needle takes the hint, disappearing once more behind the hissing door with the locket in hand. Snape keeps focused on it in order to avoid any other confrontations with the staff. Needle appears soon.

“Listen, the Boss says she needs to give the memories to you freely and on her own accord.”

 _Her accord?_ So his final memories belonged inside the locket of some woman or witch.

“Who gives a shit? One memory more, one less…we agreed on it.”

“Mate, don’t shoot the messenger.”

The whole mission seems even more ridiculous. Eight years prior, he had woken up in this very restaurant. Resurrected, then asked to gather back every single memory of himself from every known living witch and wizard. If he manages to do so before the bells strike zero, he will receive his freedom.

Now the conditions have clearly changed and it angers him even more.

“He’s fucking Satan, he can make an exception.”

The room rumbles, lights flickering overhead and a clenching terror swept over Snape. When it stops, everyone’s eyes turn to look at him in the void of darkness. They all glow a shade of opal.

“Only yours, not Granger's.”

Needle stands close to him, and Snape half expects his hand to go for his throat. Instead, he pierces him with his opal gaze and hollows the words out.

“To make an exception, your mission will be complete when you’ve _earned_ every last memory here-“

Snape's hands hesitate, the necklace still in the Needle’s grasp. Fingers interlocking the weaved edges of the chain. He holds his breath and eases his way forward to retrieve it when the man’s teeth shot forward in front of him, knocking him flat on his back on the checkered tiles.

Snape composes himself and scatters towards the exit. The door does not budge.

“The Boss says to clean up next time you come. You’re scaring the customers.”

The door releases and Snape all but flew into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably on the list of my top three favourite chapters to write. You would be shocked at how long it took me to describe the shop. The favourite chapter #1 is up to come (this one ranks #3).


	5. The Flat Wand

Granger’s flat, Snape discovers through the Yell pages directory, is located on Baker Street. It is nice to know that Muggle methods are still within his grasp (though he had to visit the homes of twenty-four Granger’s before finding the right one).

Brilliance may as well be his middle name, patronym be damned. The locket has three initials engraved: _H.J.G_. He knows what the final letter stands for.

The locket is custom made in a Silver Shop, down eastern city; Needle could tell by the make. Snape has always admired his friend’s crafty fingers and criminal past, especially now that Needle had saved his arse twice in a week.

Since it is enchanted, the locket is registered under the owner’s name for Ministry purposes. This narrows his directory search from three hundred _H.J.G._ s to only sixty-seven.

A rather young woman, evident by its tasteless and kitschy bulbous heart shape, owned the locket. This brings the search to twenty-four Grangers.

The witch also had to be someone he knew: a student, a Death Eater or someone in between or with an affiliation to both. That left the _H.J.G_. on Baker Street.

The violet flat is on the upper floor. By trial and error, he makes the mistake of descending down onto the ground level only to meet a couple of very vile hounds who bark incessantly at his feet and an equally long-nosed woman who asks how he knows the Granger girl. Having a soft spot for the elderly, he tells her he is delivering a package.

Then up into cramped apartment he goes. The witch had of course set wards, but they did not concern him.

She has enlarged the apartments to a considerable size. The two-room can comfortably fit a large family. Aged rugs line the cracked wooden floors.

He stops by a mirror in the entry to examine himself. It is only half-past twelve and she is probably still at work.

To the right of the door, a matching dining set of darkened oak. The walls a faded yellow and decorated by art. The whole flat is full of rather well made copies of the late impressionists as well as some post-modernist figures and a couple of sculptures. Further down is the large kitchen and the bedroom (which he considers too private to visit).

Of course, he should not be in the house at all, but he thinks it best to understand his subject before properly interrogating her out of his memories.

The left of the entry made way to a comfortable sitting room. Books lined the shelves and a little writing table piled high with copies and cases. He finds it odd there are so few items related to work.

Above the fireplace, a rather sloppy family portrait is hanging by a thread. Two ridiculously melted hounds in the hands of a rather pudgy couple. Their faces all bare an expression of apprehension and bewilderment as if they are not sure why the artist had butchered them.

Upon closer inspection, the artist gave them little infant faces instead of snouts and whiskers. The dogs’ faces make a smile spread over his face.

Marvelously dreadful! Snape erupts into laughter. He turns the painting to the back, gently lifting it from the screws and checking the signature.

_To my dear friends, Claudia and Cedric Diggory and their pups. Faithfully, S.S._

Peculiar. His very initials. However, he would rather lose both hands than paint such a monstrosity. The painting returns to its rightful place. Now back to Granger.

Granger, Granger, Granger.

Where did he hear the name before? If she was a student, it was no luck as he had taught hundreds over the years. Now had she been a faculty member or an associate of the Dark Lord, the numbers would be much smaller, but those wizards he remembered quite well.

His usual method worked quite well for restocking his shelves. He starts with A for Asphodel.

_Abraxas Granger, Andromeda Granger, Ariana Granger._

He runs his fingers down the leather bindings.

_B for Boomslang. Beatrice Granger, Bellatrix Granger and Beowulf._

He has not read the Muggle classics in years. He flips through the copy and only the first thirty pages are bent. Well it had not been his favorite either.

_C for Cowbane. Cassandra Granger, Claudia Granger, Constance Granger and cat hair?_

So much cat hair littered all over the flat.

 _D for Dragon Liver. Diodema Granger, Darleen Granger…Dickins._ A very impressive library indeed.

 _Diety Granger, Deliah Granger and…dogs._ Gods, those four monstrous beady eyes follow him everywhere around the room. How can one concentrate with such an abomination on the wall?

He turns to the writing desk, finding a box labelled ‘photos’ on the lower shelf behind. He lifts the lid and removes a bound album with _‘Year 1’_ engraved. Then it comes to him. On the very first page, a curly-haired little imp sits with Potter and the Ginger boy on the steps of Hagrid’s Hut. Below:

_Harry, Ronny and Mione, 1991._

Harry is smiling his father’s cheeky grin. His arm on Mione and Ronny’s shoulders.

She doesn’t show her teeth, though they could not have been as poor as the Ginger’s: crooked at the top. Of course, he couldn’t blame the family, they hadn’t been dealt the best cards financially and he couldn’t put it against them. Didn’t their father work for the Ministry? Or was one of the sons?

Flipping through the sets of photos, he notices some very observant shots of the dormitories, hallways, even the Transfiguration classroom. Some photos are made in doubles suggesting she wanted a copy for herself and for her parents or Muggle friends. A flutter of nostalgia when he sees his own Dungeons, terribly lit by candles, appearing in one polaroid.

He sets down the first album and opens the next labeled _“Year 2”._ It seems they’ve been purchased the same year.

The contents become sparser and sparser and after the fourth year, are empty. He doesn’t blame her. The one labeled _‘Year 8’_ he skips altogether, as though opening the leather bounds would release the venom of the snake straight into his veins and kill him on the spot for a second time. That album he sets aside with a shudder.

The bottom of the box contains various paper envelopes, each filled with loose photographs. One is newer than the others are and much larger.

The photo catches his attention. Mione and the new Headmistress Macgonagall at the **_Hebeto_** Ceremony.

Traditional as she was, Minerva clearly decided to revive the ancient tradition upon becoming appointed as the Headmistress (the year after he left the post), perhaps to bring the community together after the War.

He grins as he watches the unruly set of curls receive back her wand, now with a duller tip than before. Not because he finds her particularly funny, but because it reminds him of a time in his second year that he had tried to do it himself by means of a pocketknife.

The wand did not prove that he was more capable of producing a clean spell, but rather spluttered the enchantment all over the hallways when he tried to Hex the heinous James Potter and his gang of Marauders.

It had also been his first detention with the Caretaker and the first time he had to find employment forging Potions parchments for other students to find the means to replace his wand. Of course, then he read up that the **Hebeto Ceremony** could only be done by means of Godric Gryffindor’s blade, which Minerva had access to.

How did Mione find her wand now that it had been cut down to a very comfortable size and no longer posed the hazard of poking one’s thigh in the pocket? Did it give her pride to know she had achieved such a high level of control over her enchantments that she could send it through even the dulled tip of her tool? It would have for him.

He also wonders what line of work she is in. The **Hebeto Ceremony** is only offered to students wishing to join the Ministry Forces.

This Mione Granger is a very intriguing character. Clearly well read. Well trained. A questionable taste in art, but this is excusable as the flat is likely rented. He is giving too much credit to her intelligence as she is clearly a friend of Potter’s and no friend of that family is blessed with much common sense.

She has a cat, no doubt, and he dislikes all animals to varying degrees. As long as he doesn’t have to spend any time with it.

Then it was the question of her age. He cannot remember how long he had been absent or when he had really returned to Earth (he assumes it’s been eight years for him, but twenty since his death). One of the nasty questions picking his head at night as he lay curled up in Needle’s flat. If Mione remembers him, will she shudder at his return or look to him with admiration and respect. Maybe she, does not remember him at all.

Most importantly, she is the one who will help him finally retire to his cottage. All he needs to do, and the plan is simple in his head, is to convince her to return all her memories of him and erase all knowledge of his existence. Then when every last mortal has forgotten the name Severus Snape, he will be given a second chance at life.

A second chance to spend it in the beautiful cottage by the English Sea. The docile waves lapping at his toes during his morning walk. The salty breeze rustling his hair. A book in tow, he could finally spend his days reading to his heart’s content. Maybe even will venture as far as to re-read those Muggle classics Mione holds in her library.

He’d have to throw out the guest armchair in Nagyi’s parlour. A woman or a witch he would have not for a companion. They are far too demanding, far too troublesome. Simple, quiet bachelorhood is what he needs.

He walks to her bedroom, only for a moment to find a spot to release the locket. A small dish on the bedside table- one like his mother’s. Mione would come home, find out she had stupidly left her necklace in its usual spot and carry on with her day.

The sound of the lock unlatching is not heard as he is too busy examining a reimagining of the _Madonna_ hanging above her bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nagyi = grandmother. Really enjoyed writing HG's apartment. Also, could not help myself with the pups.


	6. The Familiar Demon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write by the seat of my pants (although I'd love to have a Beta Reader), therefore if any errors pop out, please let me know :-) Enjoy!

That Thursday afternoon, Hermione decides three days is an appropriate time to wait before asking Sir Robards Jr. to reconsider his position. Sneakers floating beyond the rack, she heads to the bedroom for a change of clothes for after her post-run shower.

_Her locket._

She grabs it and swipes out her wand, quickly pulling back the gauze. Her wards haven’t warned her.

She slips through the hall, peaking into the bathroom, pulling the door shut. Back in the living room, her back traces the solid wall as she circled the room. Ears picking each sound. Body against the front door, she yells.

“Out, I’m with the Ministry!”

She sends a Patronus out of her wand for assistance. From behind the kitchen door, a dark figure emerges as Hermione holds herself at the door and fires. She hears a groan.

“Put. The wand. Down.”

His tone, unmistakable. Familiar and close. A heap of black hair, two dark eyes glaring at her. The binding curse pressing him into the parquet.

“Enough.”

Severus Snape.

The Master’s eyes caress her temples all the way back to her ears. She had been significantly average to feel their study. Now they grind her attention like the Root of Asphodel in an infusion of Wormwood, bottle concoction and sort it on the appropriate shelf of his mind.

Hermione lowers the wand by a few inches, twisting his weave of dark hair deep into the wood so he will stop looking at her like one of his projects.

“Severus Snape is dead. Who are you?”

The man before her has two small scars on his neck. He smells unmistakable, as someone should when they lean over your neck to scrutinize your every task.

An onlooker startles the couple. _Draco?_ No, Martin from the Ministry has received her Patronus.

“Draco sent me in to check-“The wizard approaches the sight before him: an armed Hermione fuming at a bound man completely helpless on the floor. “Hermione, who’s this?”

Hermione kept her stance. “I’d like to know.”

The words release without any time to reflect on them. Hermione sting again.

“Theft. Unlawful Apparition. Unregistered existence.”

The accused turns his head to the side, biting for air.

“Bold accusations.” Snape’s contact does not flinch. In a controlled tone, he turns to the guest. “Martin, have the wards signaled?”

Martins shakes his head. Interns are not paid enough to deal with this.

“Just register the incident already-“

“Martin.” Snape’s tone is deliciously warm. “Let’s end this here. I haven’t stolen anything or intruded, else the Ministry wards would have signaled. Second, you aren’t qualified to register complaints, and why go through all the trouble? Third, no one in the Auror office cares enough to deal with the situation.”

Martin gaze is bewildered, as is Hermione’s.

“Not that I am in the position to lecture you, but this isn’t the best course of action.”

Before she can change her mind, she flicks her wand towards the Intern and Obliviates his memories.

  
===

The Auror and the Potions Master face each other with Martin off to the office forgetting why he’d come (though glitches in memory happen often to the twenty-year old).

“Who else knows?” Hermione asks.

“At the rate you Obliviate, no one is London ever will know a single thing you say.”

Obliviation is a difficult procedure. Hermione believed he knew something very dangerous; else she would not perform it.

“You’ve been here before.” The wand points straight at him. He knew exactly where she kept the locket and returned it to the small holding dish.

“Granger, if you wanted me dead, I already would be. Remind me again how you secured this job because you are doing a poor job interrogating your subjects.” He splutters as she tightens the enchantments.

“This locket?” She dangles the silver chain. “Why did you take it?”

“It was given to me.” (He wants to add Needle’s name, but remembers the bloke probably stole it himself.)

Hermione never removes it from her neck, even sleeping with the silver close to her chest. Until it was snatched by the Demon (in her dreams, no doubt).

“Have you ever experienced any…visions lately? Anything out of the ordinary? Because I have every reason to believe the silver contains both of our memories.”

With each passing word, her grip loosening. It was Severus Snape. Without a doubt. Without a lie.

“Get out.”

He exhales loudly, picking himself off the floor and straightening his now very broad back. His shoulders sharpen the peaks of his worn jacket. His hair now wet against his forehead. He doesn’t need to be told twice.

At night, Hermione lies on the couch, her wand in hand a blanket wrapped tight around her body. She watches the door, her back pressed firmly inside the cushions. She has strengthened the wards, but cannot understand how they were broken the first time. The Ministry given added protection shields its employees from any creatures – but she was no longer part of the Ministry.

The soft whirls of Muggle cars pass outside the window. She hears a faint rustling in the room and tilted her head to look. Only Crookshanks appearing from his midnight walk. She begins drifting to sleep, the locket tight inside her palm and wrapped around her neck.

Eventually, she’s in the waves. Her toes piping in the light grey peaks. A gentle hum of water and the sun surround her. Hermione imagines herself floating in the sky. She let her fingers drift on the surface of the sea, her hands- like boats, staying afloat. She rocks gently back and forth in the deep.

Voices call from the shore.

“Mione, Mione! Swim back!”

Her father’s figure rushed towards her: small in the distance. She can’t breathe- her lungs filling with water and her ears with a low bass.

Suddenly, she is jolted awake.

“Mione, grab the suitcase, we found her.” A familiar hand and a ginger haired man beckons her to follow.


	7. The Past Mistake

Snape plunges into the Cathedral. The weight of the door giving his muscles a needed ache.

_H for Hemlock. Harvey, Hyacinth, Hermione._

Her hair was now shorter, her stance- more aggressive. Unsurprising. In twenty years the curly chit became a full-blown bobby.

Blunt as a stack of freshly pressed parchments, sharp-tongued and merciless. This was how decent people lose their souls: not in the depths of Hell, but is working for the Law. Choosing to condemn the innocent to appease some money-bag in a High Chair. Perhaps what angers Severus the most, and what he will not admit to himself, is that he was again reminded how useless he'd been without his powers and status,

Students like her were only second to Pointdexters in Snape’s books. There was a difference: one searched for correct answers above all else, the other wanted to stomp out every other option in the process. Granger was the second.

Hermione ate through books like walnuts: chewing to the flesh and then complaining as to why walnuts don’t grow unshelled from the start and why those little specks of skin got stuck in her teeth and how it would be easier with a press. It wasn’t enough to get an answer, she had to know why everyone else had made her life so inconvenient.

No, it wasn’t enough to see him bound on the floor and unarmed. She had to add insult to the injury and arrest him, insult him. He did not have a chance to speak for himself.

Yes. If there was one type of trait he hated more than arrogance, it was the insufferable trait that Hermione seemed to be composed of from the tips of her toes to the curls on her head.

This particular chit stayed in his memory with her clenched chin, her furrowed brows and those striking brown eyes.

Decades ago, the Granger girl had been in one of his classes. The same year as the Malfoy boy. An excellent student from the Faculty’s standpoint. She stayed behind to charm the books into that sickeningly perfect order, making the rest of his dump of a classroom look even more cluttered. There were even times where he had been thankful for her bookishness when the lot of the Buffoons made his shifty lessons drag on for hours on end.

However, one day, the Granger girl, in her boorish tendencies was pestering him with questions about some assigned potion. Something about ‘the textbook says it should be…and I had already brewed it three times and it did not come out…and why had the author written to crush when it could be easier to grind…”

Snape had no clue what to tell her because he'd carelessly assigned the unedited potion. 

That day, she had been brewing the concoction for the second time in his class, wanting to get the exact combination of ingredients right. He had not slept that day or was hungry, he did not remember, maybe he did not take a shit in the morning but the Granger girl was tearing at him like nails on the chalkboard. He had tried explaining to her the recipe for the potion was faulty, but the stubborn girl had already begun brewing it anew and there were only ten minutes of class left.

Whatever obscenities flew out of his mouth nearly plastered the entire class onto the walls. He had snatched the items from her desk, casting them back to their shelves and striking her book open to the homework questions. There had never been a more quiet class than the one that day.

As the sound of furious scribbling on parchment filled the silence. He had retreated to the storage room to whisk out the particular scholarly paper with the corrected potion for Granger. As he approached her, white knuckles clinging to the textbook, he regretted his decision.

The witch was crying. Sobbing in the way that girls do when they want to draw attention to their pain. First sucking every inch of themselves inwards, holding their breath. Then that trail of snot sucked back into their noses and those muffled, pitched gasps. Her eyes drilling the pages.

She caused him a great inconvenience by adding the detention to his schedule when he wanted to waste the evening away doing anything but.

She was not a bad student in the least; in fact, he assumed she had fancied him quite a lot. Had it not been for the Slytherin git complaining ‘Hermione’s table never gets detentions’ he would have let the situation pass. Instead he was tormented by a night of assigning some useless detention in the most pressing and tense atmosphere. By the end, as he was about to retreat to his bed, he’d been summoned by the Dark Lord to initiate his Godson into the Dark Order.

The image seared on his memory.

He even explained himself to Minnie who gave him a whipping for his words. She muttered the incident will pass, but the Granger girl had grown cold towards him.

"You act as though you care Severus."

In retrospect, her words were not an insult, but a call to action. He did not realize it at the time. All he thought about was how utterly hated he was - not a soul in the school, in the world, felt any pity for him. For the Granger girl, the Potter boy, and countless others. Where was his redemption?

Now again, that striking guilt he is unable to shake away. What Severus hates the most, is how he’d never found the fine line between being firm and aggressive. His actions, proven by years of working undercover as an agent and a teacher had pushed him towards the latter. The little dunderheads were unbearable, however in retrospect; none of them deserved the lashing of cruelty he had bestowed upon them. Only now, almost twenty years after his death, he was beginning to realize he had to work through his own problems.

He needed to see the Priest. His Holiness is in the basement.

“You again? Can I help?” He examines the culprit, hands to himself.

“I need advice.”

“What is bothering you brother?”

“Lately I haven’t been myself. Well, I have been more myself and that is what scares me.”

“Please tell me more.” The Priest pulls a chair for himself and offers his guest a seat. The Master lowers.

“I’ve only just become used to my new life. Why should everything be snatched away from me the moment it's in my reach?" 

The bloody locket. His bloody Boss. Now, Granger and her hatred.

The Priest nods his head, hands twisting a cube through and through. “Change happens constantly, the only stability is our willingness to adapt to it.”

“I do not want to adapt."

“Then you have no problem. Stay as you are.”

“My problem is I can no longer afford to ignore it.”

“Is that such a sin?”

“There are people who would not be happy seeing me again. Recognizing me again.” Snape thinks of Hermione, of Draco, of Lucius. He could not afford to let them see him again. He did not want to be recognized. “I worry of the sins of my past catching up to me.”

“Many people want to run from their past. “ He leans back. “Do you want to run or stay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some deviation from Canon (which I find particularly hard to write in), but not entirely unheard of from SS. I imagine he'd been kind of a prat to many a student.


	8. The Kingdom of Blue Papayas

“Mione, bullocks, get UP! We will miss her!”

Hermione jolts off the couch. _Packing_. Her hands tear at the fabric and throwing it on the bed. Undergarments, shirts and other keepsakes drowning in her sheets. The suitcase, she had to find the suitcase now.

_Faster Hermione._

She flies throughout the flat, doors latches too tightly. Leather patterns the carpet. Ink hits the back of her head. Painted hounds contort their faces.

_Faster._

The dark cellar storage. Stuffing a toolbox. Urgency. Like the night 8 years ago. Her physician says it is normal to resurge back. Physicians go to medical school. It will be different this time; she has a plan this time. A light.

“Hermione Granger, it’s over, come with us.”

_Faster._

Eyes in white. Coffee. Morning breath. She tries to protest, but no sound exits her lips. She opens her mouth. Wetness marks her cheek. Her hands cuffed. The cold spot makes her eye twitch. Off.

_Faster._

She is on a street. In front of her, a fog thicker than cotton, behind her, the steps of a building. Not the Ministry. She heels through the thick leers of fog. Where are they?

Hot. The heat of the sun burning down on her head. A happiness envelops her. In front of her eyes, a market. Much like the ones, she had seen as little girl in the South of France.

Here, Bedlams kneel by stands of fruit. Their bright colors succulent and tempting. Cherries, apples, papayas all lie open in front of her. Their juices spread on little plates. Begging her to try.

Hermione reaches her hand out, enveloping a slice of an apple. She let it sit on her tongue. Sweet. The taste hitting the roof of her mouth and lighting her entire head with delight. The bedlams beckon her to try another. One by one. The fruits linger on her tongue for a second before melting away.

Delicious. Again and again, the fruits find her mouth. Her chin is sticky when she clenches it.

_Faster._

Suddenly she peers at her blue hands. Blue with sweet sticky juices.

This is sickening. What was she doing here? Eating like some swine when her little girl was lost in the midst of this dream. She searches frantically, her stomach sinking and she wants to relieve herself. The bedlams reach back to her, their mouths dripping in blue.

_Faster._

The bedlams’ faces become menacing. Thick dog snouts grow out. Whiskers. She did not stop to look, only ran.

She saw her, the little girl with the reddest hair and the bluest eyes. It was she.

She called out to Ron. Repeatedly as she ran, further into the market, after her.

_Faster._

Exasperated, she calls out for anything in the void to rouse her from this nightmare.

_Please. Faster._

Tears swell in her eyes and her throat clenches. Sobbing, she passes the window a third time.

Suddenly the dark shadow glides nearby.

_Faster Hermione._

The bank of the sea. Ahead, the girl steps in the water, smiling and beckoning her to follow.

She goes deeper and deeper into the water and spreads on her back. She looks at her toes above the water, running her hands along the surface of the water.

_No!_

Hermione calls out to her, begging her to swim back. As she did, the shadow dissolved beside her and the shape taking form.

_Snape! Go in and save her!_

The figure reaches out. Hermione flinches away, running into the water after the girl. Whatever she did, she had to save her. The closer she got, the further the girl moved away. Hermione looks back to the shore. Her father, no longer tanning on the beach. Now only a black figure.

_Help! Please help her._

The girl was gone. Gone in the grey depths, as if she had not been there. Hermione is helpless, weak, struggling to breathe as her legs gave away to the depths of the waters. They’re too far.

Her legs give away and she finds herself listening to the song of the sea. Sinking deeper and deeper into the depths. Thick seaweed wraps her ankles and the songs of merpeople fill her ears.

At the last exhale, a pair of hands wrap her and mount her to the surface.

Warm, familiar and safe. She relaxes into the scent of the warm chest. The deep sounds of the sea melt into deepening heartbeat, slowing with each exhale. Her eyes trace a round button on the chest, circling it with her gaze until it orbits in yellow in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anouther really tough one to pin down because I had the idea in one of my dreams. But Im happy so far. Enjoy!


	9. The Gaurdian Devil

Hermione wakes in her own flat. In her own bed. Disheveled and tired. Clothing lies scattered. In front of her, one Snape eating her well-hidden stash of caramel pumpkins and helping himself to a hot coffee.

Crooks, rubs against his leg and spreads his ginger stomach for a scratch. He obliges leaving crumbs of chocolate on his thick fur. The feline leaps onto his neck, nestling itself between his broad shoulders and purring into his ear.

“What in Hell are you doing here?”

He groans, rubbing off a fleck of chocolate from his sweatshirt. The same Fleetwood Mac sweatshirt from before.

 _Slob._ The words come out naturally.

“A strong statement when your house looks like a rat’s nest.”

“ _Put the chocolate down.”_

“Stingy _._ Your moldy chocolate is the least you could give me after I pull you out of the lake in the MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.”

So she had left her house and walked through London in the middle of the night in a haze? She snatches the bag from his hand, but he holds on tightly. His hot sugary breath on her.

“ _You’re welcome,”_ Snape’s voice a snarl. Once finished, he releases his grip. The bag let out a rip, whitened caramels sprinkling on the floor. She shakes her head, not feeling the familiar weight on it.

Hermione grasps her chest. Snape points to the bedside table. The key and necklace there.

“Did you find her?”

“No idea.”

Hermione rubs her eyes. “The girl! The little red-head! You were on the beach with me?”

The look on Snape’s face tells otherwise. He is a skilled liar. However, does he have a motive?

“What did you see?”

“Ron called, he says he found… _her._ I was packing. I was taken in and I was in…France. Well, it looks like it. And there were fruit stands-“

“You’re feverish. And I won’t even try to explain the accuracy of Apparating Transcontinentally in a matter of hours without a license or permission with some Ron.”

“Oh you know my friends' names perfectly well. And don’t tell me you haven’t rummaged through my things today. Unless the last time was enough.”

Harry had always suspected him of indecency. The look on his face tells her that at least one of those accusations had been true.

She slams him easily. Not only did he have the indecency to trick her with his identity, but also he had returned as a snappy, sarcastic, disrespectful…

“COWARD.”

“DON’T CALL ME A COWARD.”

“You haven’t proved otherwise.”

“I do not take cheek from anyone, GRANGER.”

Snape tosses the towel on the bed and walks out. Hermione sits in silence, swearing he would not come back in. She slides off the bed. Eventually she finds him on her sofa. Her cat nestled itself on his shoulders, sniffing in the scent of his ashen neck and purring sweet nothings into his ear.

She grabs her mug from the kitchen; the cat walks over towards her on his hind legs.

“You furry traitor.” Hermione practically hissed the words. “Why are you being so friendly with him?”

“Hermione, I think you are being unreasonable. Snape-“

“We don’t know who it is.”

“I do.” The crossed his paws and swung them off the counter. “Snape could help you. Who better to help you solve the case of a snarky boss than one of their kind?”

“I wouldn’t stoop as low as to use him.”

“Then use each other.” The cat purred. “You help him with his little mission, he with yours.”

“I can’t trust he will. I don’t know his intentions.”

“Well, he came to you empty handed, underdressed and certainly quite vulnerable. Now had I been a little wiser, I would say the wizard is looking to apologize for his wrongdoings.”

Apologies from Severus Snape? The wizard who would snap without second thought at anyone who dared to question him. Who would carry through with a decision despite it being clearly incorrect.

Not her Snape.

Although in her younger days, he held redeemable qualities. Forgivable only through a lens of naïve stupidity. She went as far as to defend his actions to her close friends. She finds it hard to believe that Snape would ever utter the words ‘sorry’ or the like to anyone. She was sure those words did not exist in his lexicon.

But if he really is Snape and he has returned, what are his reasons. He would have been around 60 years of age at the time, but his face had not aged one bit. Almost like time has stopped for him. Or that he was reborn like the Headmaster’s phoenix bird. If anything, he looked younger and well-rested and as fresh as a 30 something would in his condition. Perhaps the London air and occasional outbursts of sun had done the dungeon dweller well. His clothing, Muggle made, made him most unrecognizable. Gone were the billowing capes of black buttoned to the brim.

Had he come to intimidate her, he should have dressed more appropriately.

Hermione considers the cat’s words and steps back into the salon. “Leave, and don’t follow me. I have to check something first.”

She vanishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favourite character (after SS) here. More of him in later chapters. Can you guess? Enjoy!


	10. The Moon Woman

The pathway of blooms outside a wooden gate greets the witch. Morning dewdrops glisten in the sunlight. Here, one falls from the petal onto a leaf. The green caress it in its palm before handing it softly to the next leaf. This one lets it slowly dribble and dance down its fingertips before releasing it onto a blade of grass whereby it settles into the moist Earth.

She wiggles the lock, twice, and tiptoes forth.

_Ring._

She doesn’t need Snape’s coffee. Her chin tingle and knots into the loop of a needle. The curtains flutter on the door. The moon opens the door.

Warm milk with silken strands of white hair cascading down her back, the witch looks like she’d been plucked straight from her garden. Her lips, bitten like a strawberry cocktail. Her cheeks- smooth as chocolate.

Stupid. Ron would be stupid to have been with her last night. Chasing down the red-headed girl through the stocks and canopies of the French Riviera.

“We’ve already donated last week.”

The witch wraps her robe around her midline, noticing Hermione’s lingering gaze and following it to her nose. Hermione wipes it with her sleeve and notices the bloody stain on the brown cape. _Shit._ She’ll need to wash her work robes at home.

“Is Ron home?” The tone muffles through the fabric.

“No. You might be able to reach him by owl.”

She smiles sweetly, her plump and youthful cheeks rising. _This is what they mean by a pregnancy glow._

The roses in the garden bear their thorns. She is going mad. It had all been a dream last night. There isn’t a chance in hell that Ron will leave this tranquillity for her. It had all been a dream.

“Miss?”

Hermione mumbles a goodbye and turns the steps. She grips the railing. So white. Where are the cars? She has fallen into the water tank. Light flashes outside her eyes. Home. She needs to Apparate.

In the sky, a gull flies by. She becomes its feather, light and floating in the blank space.

“Miss!”

A tingle on her shoulders. She turns her head and it strikes in pain. A prickle escapes her lips. Running fingers through her hair and lifting her up.

Her mother used to brush her hair like this. Hands gripping the ends so she would only hear the rustle of the brush. Then slowly working its way to the roots. So she wouldn’t feel pain.

She begins to cry.

\--

Hermione wakes up on the paisley sofa. The moon-faced woman sitting at the dining table.

“Have some water. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

She was absolutely gorgeous in that nightgown. She would look in practically anything and she was sure Ron thought the same. She couldn’t even be upset that he’d chosen her. Heck, if she were a man, she’d have her to herself.

How far along was she? She wonders if Ron wanted the baby. It warms her from the pit of her stomach to the tips of her toes to know that the child would grow up in this house. Would lie on this couch and read books, kick its feet on the ridge. She should be angry, but she only feels pride. How strange to want some other child to be happy with him.

“Have you eaten? I’ve set anouther plate.”

How long had she been out? Rustling in the kitchen and Ron appears. She wishes he’d be less cordial.

“She’d always forget to eat when she was studying,” he tells the moon-faced woman. “

The table is set for three. The sound of forks clings as Ron helps himself to anouther serving of chicken. She wonders if he’d told his wife about them. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter. She wasn’t going to show up anyways if she didn’t have to.

“How is work?”

He mumbles it had been good, but only after his wife repeats the question twice.

“And yesterday? I had the strangest night.”

“Strange for sure,” replies the Moon Woman, now charming anouther helping of mash onto Hermione’s plate. “Don’t we think so?”

Hermione perks up, anxious to hear Ron’s response. He’d been with her last night.

“Bloody bells, keep ringing out of tune. Throws wind to my practice.” He stuffs anouther mouthful.

On the other hand, Snape might be right and the wizard was truly home all night. He couldn’t possibly be

“What position?”

Hermione nearly splutters on her dinner wine. The question seems to phase no other party at the table.

“Excuse me?”

“Which Quidditch position? Ron never mentioned.”

Right, she had nearly forgotten the story. She avoids Ron’s eyes for a long as possible, tearing into the potatoes (which were phenomenally charmed to perfection). As long as Ron keeps eating, she might avoid the further embarrassment.

“Hermione on a broom? Not unless the Auror department no longer uses the Network.”

She takes a big sip of the wine, only to find the glass is monstrously empty.

“Oh, Ronny hasn’t broken much more than a nose?” The witch smiles, running her fingers through his hair. His mouth like a Cheshire cat, grinning to the brim.

She bites her tongue. And Ron, thankfully, catches the hint and pulls away. He excuses himself to the kitchen to wash a few dishes. She rises from the seat to help carry a few dishes, even though they could easily be charmed back.

_Muffliato._

She shuts the door for added effect and decency.

He scrubs furiously at some stain on the pan.

“Talk to me,” she asks.

The stain cannot scrub away slowly enough. He moves onto a pasta pot. “She likes them clean. Maybe you can bring the rest?”

“That’s all.”

“Really?” He moves to wiping down the counters. One swipe across the already immaculate countertop after anouther. When there is nothing else to polish finally faces her wanting eyes.

“She’s probably waiting.” He fumbles to release the Silencing Charm from the door, but Hermione has a higher share of practice keeping secrets.

“Oh no, I’ll bet she enjoys having Help in the kitchen, Ronny.”

“Don’t start this.”

“Start what? This?” She flails her regard around the room and her gaze falls on two eggplant towels on the over handle. Initialed “R.W. and F.D.W.”. She grabs them. “Did you at least pick these out or was it on her suggestion?”

“Does it matter?”

Hermione flings the fabric back in place. After deliberation, Ron adjusts them with the corners matching up.

“Where the Hell were you last night?”

He runs his finger over his. Now it is apparent how dark his under eye circles have become. He’d been home, he’d always been home.

“It’s been eight years, Mione.”

He holds the counter, gripping it with both hands and slides towards the corner.

“For me, it’s every day. For eight years. Every day.”

 _Eight years._ She’s lost count of how many tears she’d shed this week alone and she stuffs the last one muffle inside herself. Not a day goes by without thinking of her. And now this sickening wizard with his pathetic sympathy. His perfect English abode. His wife’s rose garden. That bump. The paisley couch. The chicken feels sour inside her throat.

She storms past him, the enchantment down.

“Thank you for dinner. It’s been lovely.”

The Moon-Faced witch twirls her brows into concern. “You’re sure Ron can’t Apparate you home?”

The red face leans against the door frame. His cape summoned in his hand, hers in the other. She pulls it out. The stain from before charmed off and it smells of rosemary and lavender as she pulls it on.

“I’m sure.” She meets his gaze one last time. He clutches the wool as though her reply could change. She pulls herself in and gives a cordial smile to the hostess.

As she Apparates to her own purple flat, she hopes Snape had been waiting for her. But the light in the window is off. The charm echoes off the walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awkward dinner parties.


	11. The Contract with the Devil

Granger’s welcome had been his warmest Lucifer knows how long.

“Snape?” Hermione stands at the doorstep. “You’ve found the doorbell.”

“Cheek.” He spits on the lawn before entering. She remembered him. Actually remembered his name.

She moves aside, but he intentionally brushes past her into the entry. The intimidating gesture to shame her for being so loose-tongued during their last meeting. For all sake, he was her instructor and she snaps at him with such spunk. No respect. There’s another reason to dislike witches.

Also the smell of a week’s worth of sweat hitting his nose. She looks worse for wear.

“Let go of the ridiculous thing Granger, you offend me.”

Her wand pointing at him through her sleeve. If either of them wanted the other dead, it would have already been done. Really, the audacity? Had she learned nothing about subtlety during his Dark Arts classes?

“Don’t call me Granger.”

He leans in, marking the letters of her surname clearer than before with his lips. _Gran-ger._ She steams. No wonder she had not advanced beyond the lower Ministry ranks, easily flustered as she was. 

“You came to tell me about the pendant?”

“As you can see.”

He hooves towards the sofa and sits down, realizing too late that she had been sleeping there. There was no need for her to fuss over his comfort, although he would have been pleasantly surprised at the gesture. She makes a move as if to offer to clean the mess, but he quickly tosses all the items behind a pile of cushions.

Among them, some knickers (likely the reason she offered to clean in the first place). He bites his tongue filled with many a witty comment.

“I’ll get coffee.” She ducks into the kitchen trying to figure out if she even had instant coffee.

Snape folds a nearby receipt into careful halves before feeling the scrutiny of the terribly painted hounds in front of him. He begins flipping through the books on a far shelf. Behind one book, an old box of Chocolate Frogs. No use in wasting a good candy, and he hadn’t eaten this morning. Out of habit, he pops it into his mouth and looks at the card. _Albus Dumbledore._

Her cat, the owner of the orange fur stuck around the room, now rubs against his leg and purrs loudly. Animals don’t usually like him. Snape- strikes this as odd and scratches its ears.

One coffee mug floated in front of the Master, the other in Hermione’s hand. She reminds him. He looks at the cup solemnly.

“No digestive biscuits?”

“There are none.”

“They’re in the second cupboard by the fridge,” he commands.

She sets his cup by the sofa and sits on a faded armchair with her own. The biscuits do not appear. He waits for a few moments joining her. Perhaps his intimidating techniques only work on little girls in Fish and Chip restaurants.

“What are you jotting down?”

Her brown eyes dart to her notepad, which is not floating so inconspicuously for the Potions Master not to notice. She proudly informs him that he is the subject of her recent investigation- that she has been trying to figure out how exactly he had returned from the dead.

“You should also add that I’ve come to this earth to collect souls.”

“You want to spite me?”

“It’s a very important fact! Demons like me love souls. A soul is a …treasure: infinite, bright, and unnervingly pure and of course useful to those who can understand its true value.

Except for **_your_** stingy little soul.”

He hopes his sarcasm will translate well, but her curls seem to tighten with every word and the little quill continues recording.

“Souls are- they aren’t tangible and few…scholars were able to extract them. Even if they were able to, you would need to end the life of the person you were sucking it from-“

“You are unbearable. I was only joking.”

“I was not.”

“Your loss. Which creature have you finally decided to label me as?”

Hermione huffs. “I was torn between Dementor and Ghost, both wouldn’t have bodies so my wards would not have recognized them. However, you can sit on furniture which leads me to believe you have some sort of body. And some shields can keep out Dementors. I put one on last night, but it didn’t have an effect on you. Although a demon could be a possibility, that would mean you’d have had to be Christened at some point and as far as I know most wizards are not-“

“As far as you know.”

She had done a good job on her research. Very thorough.

"My grandmother is a Catholic."

She holds the cup in her hands, the white whisps in front of the window. It is unnerving how little she says not and he wishes she'd at least drink her beverage.

"The locket, who gave it to you?"

He watches her hands as they redden around the ceramic mug. She really should let it rest. Then it happens. The watery eyes, the thin trickle around the nose. And when she sniffles, he places the mug and marches to the kitchen.

He had not planned for this and really he should be more used to women crying around him since the incident with Needle's sister. He holds his mouth as if making himself vanish from the room. His teeth grit his dry lips. He swallows hard. Peaking behind the wall, she seems to have settled down.

"Granger?"

He approaches her from the back, keeping his gaze on the carefully ironed tulle gauzing over two dried ferns in faded pots. Their leaves are crisper than a winter breeze. After a moment, a gentle charm sends one stalk shooting up and immediately plunging down to the window sill. Then the floorboard under her feet creaks as she readjusts herself in the cushions.

"Are you finished?"

She lets out a sigh. Gods, if there was a way to Apparate, he would take it.

"If this is an inconvenient time I could come later."

"It's fine. It's from Ron?"

"The Ginger?" 

She nods.

"You could ask him to remove my memories then?"

Fantastic. The Weasley boy has somehow managed to butcher up the locket, and now the memories are both insides. The family had never been particularly good at charms (or much of anything remotely academic).

"So you believe it?" She shifts her body. "You believe the memories are there?"

 _Obviously_. Why else would he be wasting his afternoon on making pleasant conversation with the witch he used to teach nearly three decades ago? She was not particularly engaging and in some melancholic state that women are bound to succumb to at least once a month.

"Of course. And you'll be returning them."

"Not until you help me get my job back."

Her job? Well, what did he have to do with it? He was no career expert here. 

"You're the one responsible. You stole-"

"Found."

"STOLE the necklace. And because of it, Robards thinks I'm disobeying orders."

She stands to meet him.

"If you're rummaging around London at night, falling into rivers, I'm surprised it only took him until now to figure out that you've completely lost your screws."

She perks up. He can deal with her fit, unlike her snotty tears. 

"Granger if you'd just stop wearing that locket of yours. I have reasons to believe it might be cursed."

"I'm not asking Ron, and that is final."

How was it possible to deal with these witches? Now she has spilled the beverage on herself and is hastily charming it off. He might be tempted to help (if he could), but even if he had his powers it is far more entertaining to watch her grumble and curse under her breath.

"Help me with my job. Or don't."

"I will see to it, Gran-ger."

She stiffens and scoffs and it brings a smile to his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-reading and editing and realizing how slooowly the burn is evolving. Not sure if I should condense/cut down some of the last chapters. They might have too much back story. I was actually considering starting the book with the chapter on 'Kingdom of Blue Papayas' (Ch. 8). What do you think?  
> Also re-wrote the Ron interaction. Originally had her meet him at the Quidditch pitch, but I thought it would be more tense at his home with his pregnant wife.


	12. The Third Partner

Draco was taken aback as the dark figure rippled through the files with his entrance. Few wizards send a chill up his spine and this one just made the list (but not above his own father).

“Mr. Malfoy.” Each letter plucks a blonde hair out of Draco’s head.

“Do we know each other?”

“You weren’t told?” the stranger replied in a sardonic tone. “Pity. Robards Jr. still doesn’t give a shit about memos.”

“Flies by the seat of his pants.” Draco laughs at this honest observation. “Should I tell him you’re here?”

The stranger shoves a file into his lap, making a straight line to his boss’ office like he’d been working here his entire life. Draco, peaked into the document, finding an assortment of interesting cutouts. Most absorbed, he hardly noticed his partner coming back from the loo the third time that morning.

“Robards Jr. gave you a new case?”

“The new delegate did, probably from the Slavic branch.”

“What makes you say that?” Hermione leans over his shoulder, picking through the papers herself. The exact remaining bits of evidence for the case Draco had been assigned to this week.

“You should have seen him. That menacing type that could kill you with a single look. Tall too and very suave. Robster will hear about it soon enough.” He gestured to the head office. _Mr. Robards Jr._ Hermione corrects him.

 _Great, bloody excellent._ Hermione had just been released from temporary suspension, came in early to reclaim her contract with the Auror office only for some Slavic delegate to be taking up her boss’ time. If she had ever felt more insignificant, it was now. She grabs her resume as well as her references and support letters that she had spent the past two weeks forming into a careful presentation.

She paces beside the door, her coworkers' eyes burning through her. The pathetic knockout. It doesn't matter what they think of her now, all that matters is that Robards Jr. and whether or not she will be admitted back to her position.

Curiosity taking the best of her, she holds her ear to the crack in the door and utters an eavesdropping spell to listen in.

Robards Jr. is too preoccupied with the way the dark stranger striding around his office to notice a disruption in his wards. To her surprise, the man Draco had seen enter is none other than Severus Snape. Draco knows Snape, how come he couldn't recognize him?

Severus runs his fingers along the extensive collection of neatly sorted files on the desk. As he does, she notices how relaxed his shoulders are. How can he stay so relaxed when talking to a wizard he’d never met? Although years of working for the Darkest Lord of the century probably seems like child's play compared to talking to the head of the London Auror branch. His gaze stops on a single scarlet bloom inside a glass jar.

His fingers caress the petals.

“Is there anything specific you wish to say sir? Otherwise, I will ask you to leave my office at once. You have tested my patience enough.”

Her boss’ tone quivers as Snape runs his finger along the petals of the rose, crushing one in his darkened fingers.

“Such a beautiful present.” He plucks the petal, bringing it to his nose and taking a drag. Then he crushes the red beneath his fingers.

“They are from my wife.”

“Really? Only your wife is allergic to roses.” Anouther red petal and succumbs it to the same fate as the first. Robards Jr.’s gaze darts around the office catching notice of someone listening in.

“Granger, out.” The boss snarls as he tightens his wards again.

She paces around the office, visiting Harry who is more than glad to see her back. His office was conveniently located beside Robards Jr.’s so she can jump over at any moment.

She fakes interest as he tells her all about his son’s newest words and another trip out with his wife Ginny. Jumping at every crack of a door. Finally, Snape’s unmistakable voice and a laughing Mr. Robards Jr. exit and Hermione cuts Harry's story short. Robards is heading straight for her.

“Hermione.”

The demon also nods his head. She stares him down as she followed Robards Jr. into the office.

“Ms. Granger, I’ve been informed by…Mr. Snape here.”

“It won’t happen again. Whatever he told you was not true.”

“Right.” Ignoring her, he sinks into the chair. The rose, Hermione noticed, now charmed into invisibility. “Despite letting you go, I have reconsidered my…position.”

“You are returning my job?”

“Not yet. Think of it as a probation period.” He flicks his wand, cabinets exchange their shelves until he produces a rather large file. It reads:

**Case 394 – Classified information**

Inside a list of photos and documents on two autopsies.

“Two litres of Fire Whiskey found in his blood the evening of the accident, but wife says he’s never had more than a whiff.”

She thanks him, snatching the file before her boss can change his mind.

“Call in Draco, you will be working as a trio. Granger. I am watching you.” The door closes behind her.

\--

She walks after the Master though he doesn’t try to avoid her. Turning to his face, she expects him to demand acknowledgments. He does not. It is a daily occurrence whereby he can march right into a Ministry Department and conjure back a job without any presentations, reference letters and referrals. Her cheeks are boiling with jealousy. Why must some wizards have life so easy when she works so hard?

“I’m not a child. I can fend for myself.”

“I hope you can, because Robards Jr. won’t let you back as easy the second time.”

“Maybe you forgot, but I finished one of the top Auror Academies in Europe and my boss knows how capable I am of working here. I could have had my job back without your help.”

Snape looks neither concerned nor offended.

“I don’t that kind of time.”

"We start at seven sharp tomorrow morning."

He gives her a nod and walks down the steps. Whatever did he say to the infallible Robards?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy for Hermione while writing this chapter, although, still unsure of why she got her job back so easily. What is brewing beneath the surface of Severus' interaction with Robards?


	13. The Gentle-Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My absolute favourite chapter in the book! And if you guessed Crooks was my favourite character, you are very correct.

Hermione is such a stopper. Needle fumbles with a jewellery box under the bulb. The Fish and Chips restaurant is empty save for the Jeweller and the Master. No longer able to deal with the number of thin picks scratching his mind, Snape walks to St. Michael’s.

Now a flash of fur catches his eye. It vanishes behind some lamppost and appears out of the one three benches closer to him. He is relieved it is only Hermione’s Familiar.

“Evening,” he says and it adjusts its pace.

At first, this appears like a wild coincidence, but then the cat takes a soft left and then two sharp rights and Snape realizes the cat has memorized his favourite walking route and has invited himself along on his midnight walk. He swings his rich tail back and forth, clearly seeking a compliment. Snape is happy to oblige because he is a very handsome ginger gentle-cat.

“I wouldn’t mind a cat like you as a Familiar, though I’ve never liked animals. Had a raven once, but he flew away on me. Lucky that, he ate through too much of my pocket money.”

It could be a talking Animagus, no doubt. But an Unregistered Animagus is illegal in London and especially for a Ministry worker to own. Unless he is something different. He considers asking the Cat what kind of creature he is but decides that it isn’t polite. He is a very sensible gentle-cat.

He changes the topic to their only mutual acquaintance.

  
“Hermione acts like I’m the Devil himself. It’s half true. You’d think the Bob would have respect for authority. Wish I knew why she disliked me.”

The cat perks, suggesting that Snape knows _exactly_ why his snarling disposition is at fault.

“Don’t give me that look. I’m not half as bad as I’m made out to be. Had she seen my Dark Arts professor back in the day, she would think me a saint! At least I don’t choose favourites.”

The cat hisses.

“Hermione would not be one of them, no offence. She’s prickly all around the edges. No wonder she lives alone. Though she’s sensible enough not to subject another wizard to her quips, single as she should be. At least she owns you…”

“I walk alone,” the cat says.

he puffs as he rises to his hind legs and his paws tun through his glistening whiskers. “I am certainly not owned by anyone, not even by my lovely Hermione. Unlike you.”

It speaks! The cat’s bold observations make Snape question how much the cat really knows about his past. Because the truth was, Snape belonged to anyone but himself. But the Cat could not possibly know that at least judging by his Cat age. The Cat’s confidence suggests otherwise. He is a very confident cat.

“Sorry, puss.”

“It's only natural to be curious. You have business with the witch. And this is the exact reason I’m here.”

Snape decides there is no use hiding his intentions from the feline. He is a very smart cat.

“The witch hates me. But I need to change this is a matter of months.”

“Good friendships have been made in weeks.” The cat flicks his eyes. “And paramours in as little as a night.”

This explicit statement makes Snape scratch his neck. The Cat is beginning to crawl under his skin with the sheer amount of accurate jabs in a minute and he decides he does not like Familiars at all.

“I don’t have these intentions.”

“Oh I know, I was only getting a reaction. And I saw what I wanted to see.” He adds with a glimmer to his marbles. “Well, you should know that your Boss is not an honest one.”

“How do you know about our contract?” Snape asks. There is no way this uncanny little gentleman was more skilled a Legilimens than he.

“I don't. However, now I am certain one exists.”

Now Snape is very aware that the cat baited him with the comment, and like a herring, he caught the worm and devoured it.

  
“In the ten minutes we’ve been walking, you reacted to my jab about the Boss which leads me to believe you have one right now and that it bothers you. And what bothers you is the contract you have with him which you just mentioned- a very timely one. And to complete my deductions, you need to create a special bond with my Mistress whom you obviously have feelings for.”

No, he did not like Crooks very much at all. Mainly because it reminds him how out of practice he’d gotten with keeping up his own shields.

“No need to be so vexed. Many people find it easy to confide in us - cats. If you knew just how much we heard, perhaps you would keep your mouths shut a little more often.”

“There’s something we can agree on.” He thinks of Hermione and her constant jabbering.

“And what do you plan on doing with this information?”

“Your little secret is safe with me, so as long as you can do a little favour for me. Quid Pro Quo.”

He discovers Crooks is very fond of cigars and rum which is the least surprising fact he’d learned from the feline that evening.

“I wonder what _he_ wants from me.” Snape muses aloud.

“Well, perhaps your Boss is hungry for something.”

“Bosses don’t eat people.”

“How do you know, maybe you’re delicious.” The cat cackles and disappears behind one of the benches leaving Snape with one question: where can he buy cigars at this time of night?


	14. The Cuban Cigar

Like the winter, spring thaws Snape’s stone heart and he finds himself back at Baker street where his Granger lives. He had not visited in a few days- mostly out of fear of appearing annoying. He took time to research and think about why Hermione was back in his life, what linked them together, and why Hermione was seeing strange visions in her sleep. He wasted no time in retrieving a set of memories from every familiar Auror in the Ministry office.

The flats stretched out the length of the familial streets. Small birch encrusted birch trees stood the round. In one of the flats, a ginger ball of fur strides through the backyard.

Speaking of Crookshanks, he walks into the yard one morning to see him in the most compromising situation. The cat was on its hind legs – like a human. In one hand, a golf puck, and the other on his rounded hip. With one swift swing, the cat sends a golf ball through a tiny metal loop in the ground into an even smaller hole. The ball rounded the corner and did not fall in causing the cat to curse in an unknown language. Snape was not sure what surprised him most: the swear or the cat strutting over to replace the little white ball on the stand.

“Car-rrre to join?” The cat gestured to small leather bag with two more gold sticks.

“Of course,” Snape replied- the most obvious answer.

\---

Now that Hermione looks from her hunched position over the table- locket in hand and a series of tools spread on the table, Crookshanks strutted into the room and then rose on two hind legs and went to fridge to pour himself a glass of tomato juice.

“He alr-rrready knows.”

Hermione’s look could only be seen to be understood. Accepting her defeat, she hunched back over the table and began furiously picking at the metal.

“You like animals?” she asked.

“Not unless they’re on my plate or fto lie over with a parcel. I’d take your cat any day.”

 _Fucking_ brilliant Granger. She was creative. The cat was an absolutely masterpiece: a live talking one at that. He knew a handful of sorcerers who could do what Hermione did to Crookshanks. She should have taken that apprenticeship with Minnie because she would have many a fine Transfiguration specialist.

“He got hit by a car and I owled Macgregor for some research on feline transfiguration and regeneration. Well it turned out a witch in the Siberian Institute had enchanted her cat back to life so I thinks- why not give it a try? Well after monthes of research I finally come up with-“

Bloody brilliant indeed. Hermione’s explanation went on in an abstracted manner, arms gesturing in the air and her eyes darting in an amusing manner. She was reading the script off of thin air for an unseen audience.

“-the only problem is now he enjoys hard liquor and cigarettes and an appreciation for communism.”

“The only functional system of governing.” Crooks interjected, toasting his tomato juice to the air.

Snape raised his own glass in unison, giving the cat an approving nod. “It’s like you’re living with your own personal Fidel Castro.”

“I prefer English politics,” Hermione states and tossed the tools down into frustration, summoning a glass of red for herself.

“Too early for a Bloody Mary?” Snape ran his finger along the rim of the virgin drink. The cat cocked his head.

“I’m still weaning Crooks off Rum.”

“Lifting the dry spell could relax you.”

Hermione muttered something under her breath. The problem with the witch was that she was constantly on edge- an itch in her behind that she needed to get rid of. Now her forehead was free from the mess of curls, he could see signs of frustruation swimming through and through. Her eyes blank on the floor, summoning the fibers on the Persian rug.

Pensive as she was, she looks so approachable. No longer spilling curses like some back-alley punk, her breaths released his head into the soft pillow of the couch. A fantastically old and broken in couch that caressed his cheek.

One demon, one witch, one cat.

Tiny specks of dust smelling of old record covers winded through the air and he caught each one before it disappeared from the sunlight. He had spent decades in her room it seemed. Glass down on the bookshelf with a gentle thud, the specks of dust drifted past her curls.

Sweet little charm.

He bit what she scraped with her lips. Sunlight tasting like his old Fleetwood Mac record. To lie in his dorm, imagining what it would be like to have a mother back home who would call him down to a homecooked supper. A father who could cork only two beers a night. To lie on the couch drinking in the silence that he felt now instead of the hushed threats downstairs. Hermione’s parents were likely those sorts of people.

In fact, just the kind of witch who would spend her evenings browsing the extensive library residing in the dusty room. De Cervantes, Dumas, Burgess stands alongside a few tomes of ancient Europeans Grimoires and Alighieri. He’d even noticed a noted copy of Bulgakov by her bedside. Very fitting.

And in contrast to these characters, Granger was just a pathetic loser. Had the brave Don Quixote become heroes if he constantly followed the rules. And Dharrtagnyan? He hadn't thinks twice before assigning the royal musketeers to a duel. Granger was more like the boy Sancho who ran after his master in the shadow of a donkey and rescued him. No, not to be Granger's more heroine if she didn’t put the Minister over his head.

“I can get you other tools from the lab tomorrow?”

He shook his head.

“You’ve got more years of practice behind you, professor.”

And there it was again, that nasty little word gritting his head.

“You’re aging me Granger.”

“When you call me Granger I feel like I’m a junior about to add improperly crushed leaves into my potion.”

Fair.

“If we work together, we will need to come up with some ground rules. First of all, you cannot call me Granger just to spite me. Second, you will work on extracting my memories and that is the only way you will be present in my life. Third, I don’t care how personable you are, you will not assist me in my job in any way I do not ask you to. Fourth-”

“Should I bother to write this down?”

And to his great amusement, Hermione had actually produces from the desk not only a quill but a book depicting thirty four clearly labeled rules for their interactions. He can not help but laugh at the hilarity of it. The brown leather book had a stitched design of a red-breasted robin bird and it had mouth.

“And rule 24 states that there is no sarcasm at any point in time concerning my work or life.”

“None at all? Well then I suppose my mouth will never open in your presence.”

The Rubin Bird screeched as soon as he utters the phrase. _Bloody rubbish._

When Hermione leaves the room to enchant anouther pot of tea, Snape flips through all of her ridiculous rules and tosses the book out the window towards Pip who had just finished his business in the front yard of the flat and happily chews on the tasty leather bind.


	15. The Case of Bitchiness

Hermione crouched over the body in the morgue. Wand in gloved hand, she charms off the drape and cast over the body.

Draco fires jabs at Snape behind the caution tape. Snape’s posture and indifference making Draco look like a pathetic puppy begging for his master’s attention. He would laugh demonstratively, looking over at Hermione.

She ignores them, focusing her attention the pattern of blackened veins on the corpse’s chest where the enchantments must have hit. The corpse was a famous actor found dead by the faulty Portkey. The only suspect who was at the receiving Portkey was blamed for tempering with his properties. He would have been arrested had he also not been found dead.

“Draco, the Hemogauger. DRACO!”

Draco strutted over, removing the device from his case. “Shit Herms what’s the rush? We can’t run the analysis until we get note from the lab.”

“If you would focus more on your job than on Snape we could examine the crime scene for extra evidence.” She ran the Hemogauger over the blackened veins. Shining symbols appeared on the base indicating the levels of materials in the blood appearing in carvings on the side.

“Would you take a sample?”

Draco scrunched his nose up, refusing to get his hands dirty and muttering some excuse about cross contamination. Hermione scoffed and continued the extraction herself.

“Does it not bother you that he is our dead professor?” She shot a look towards Snape.

“Not mine,” Draco laughs. “but he is hilarious. You should have heard what he told me about this one client….”

It had been two weeks since Draco had met Snape on the daily, and each time was like the first. Draco would believe whatever new name and occupation Snape chose to give him. And it wasn’t just Draco – Robards Jr., Harry, the front office witch, the elevator keeper.

Even Mrs. Diggory gave him a kiss every time he brought down the groceries for her. _What a blessing to be surrounded by such benevolent strangers. Praise Lucifer._ Mrs. Diggory was also half-blind, but nevertheless.

This could only mean one of two theories: either she was going insane, or Snape did not possess a recognizable body to anyone but herself. And she had kept herself together.

She marched over to the Hell Cast. He looks her over and bit down on anouther sweet snack like he was in a candy shop as opposed to the Ministry Morgue.

“Well Auror Granger?”

“Stop eating. That was rule number fifteen,” Snape fliched before she could grab the bag of hazelnut straws from his hand. “Did you even read the book?”

He scrunches his chin. “I have.”

“Well read it again! It says quite clearly: no distractions and professional conduct when on the job.”

“Last I was aware, a job entitled galleons and a paycheck I have not. Besides, I am retired.”

“You’ve rested enough in Hell. Make yourself useful by offering advice.”

He shoves the baggie into Draco’s hands who are all too happy to step away from the corpse. He prods over to the body. He lifts the cloth back with the fingers, examining the body. He gestured to Hermione to flip him over with her enchantment.

“Clean spell. Marking on both sides of the head. He fell on his front meaning the back was inflicted at anouther time. Did you sample the porcelain?”

Hermione had not. The corpse levitated, it took jewelery-skill to remove the evidence.

How many murders had Snape been involved in as a Death Eater? Had he ever come back to see their corpses or did the Dark Lord leave them to rot until the Aurors come to uncover?

“Lucien would not be pleased to see his son was a soft-hand,” Snape says.

For a Katalegein Auror, Draco was the perfect fit. He preferred to be at the office, cataloguing the evidence into books rather than touching and inspecting it. Even now, he was charming some spill off his robes. Veil tucked away into the case and her notepad out, she watched the wizard adjust his collar to keep out the chill. As if he could read her mind, Snape flicked the cover over the dead man.

“By the looks of it, interested in a little break from his tedious life with his little cub.”

“Draco is a… _good_ partner.”

She stabbed a period at the end of her sentence, scribbling down her notes and making a point to outline each last letter .

Two weeks was enough to recall the Master’s expressions. She had studied his face during lecture, much like she had for the other instructors. Snape’s eyes looks like he consistently drank: puffed and slightly drowsy. But his brows were an ever-changing phenomenon. Now the thick lines had been raised in a quizzical expression creating wrinkles on the sides as he watched Draco run his finger over his stubble.

“Tolerable.”

She stands up and brushed off the dust from her shoe.

“What do you think about all of this?”

Snape’s eyes still focused in on her partner, sizing him up. “Professor Snape?”

His eyes shifts.

“I don’t like this attitude. You know as my guardian devil you could have been a bit less snarky and a little more nice.”

The Master turned to her, already visibly more annoyed.

“Granger. You are….detail-oriented and inquisitive and a delight to work with. Now would --- quit pestering me with questions.”

“No, you’re brushing me off, and being sarcastic when you should be helping me with the case like a proper side partner and doing your end of the deal. Remember rule 24?”

He approached her, practically breathing in that disgustingly close way on her face.

“If you insist, I’ll have you know I disposed of your little rulebook because I don’t appreciate your rules when I have graciously offered you my assistance without question. Do you see me handing you a book with rules? Because I could. And the first would state ‘stop buzzing in my ear at any given time” because I can't think about anything when you’re hovering over me.”

 _Prick._ However, he had a point. Even Draco pulled a face when she had written the infamous ‘Training Room’ rules during their days at the Auror Academy. They stirred up quite a riot in the men’s room, especially rule 58 which stated ‘all locker talk should stay strictly there.” Well she had cut down her rules to 34 and with the ridicule realized that she could really tighten her britches and get by with just 15. As soon as she purchased a new notebook.


	16. The Future Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snape and Hermione begin to reach an agreement.

Proving her worth now that she was back on the roster was taking a toll on Hermione. She drags herself on the steps through the back garden, not wishing to talk with Mrs. Diggory.

On the terrace, Crookshanks leans back against the window frame puffing a Cigar. His furry pantaloons crossed. From his paw, the smell of burning banana leaf filled the air with a pleasant smoke cloud. His whole image, aristocratic.

“Who gave you that?”

“Your cavalierrr.” The cat takes another deep drag, eyes rolling back in ecstasy.

“Give it here.” She claws forward but is met by a sharp scratch across the wrist. Hermione storms into the room to find Snape reclined on the writing desk.

“You’re trying to sweet-talk my cat with cigars? I JUST had him give up whiskey.”

“That I am.” His hands not lifting from the locket.

“Snape, I’m not allowing your bad influence.”

“Hermione.” He avoids her look. “I will be frank. You make it very hard to get on your good side. However, earning Crook’s affection is easier and far more entertaining.”

“Then get him a toy! For Lucifer’s sake, he’s a cat, not a middle-aged man.”

“By cat standards he is.”

Crookshanks struts into the room, grinning from ear to ear. He curves his back and lets out a carbon-black spit into his food dish. Then he grabs a copy of the Daily Prophet and a pair of spectacles and stretches out on the sofa. Snape gestures to prove his point.

“Give me that.” She reaches for the key now in front of Snape on the desk, but he pushes her aside.

“Your useless Guardian Devil is busy, or are you suddenly able to find enough energy to work a double shift and do our project?”

She was not. Hermione sinks into the cushion beside him, burying her face into Crook’s tail.

* * *

Hours later, Hermione presses over her desk, littered with files. She had been considering different theories for an hour now, each being dismissed. Snape moves the page, pulling it from her fingertips.

“I'm looking.”

His finger and eyes traced the list, stopping at certain items. His stubble brushing gently against her hairline.

"And here?” His finger dug into a nearby page.

“How do you do it? The …introspection?”

“They’re not hard to understand” His eyes looking at the array of photos. His heat emanating. She took the photos, moving to the board to add them to the frantic mess of pins and coloured string mixed with Daily Prophet articles and notes.

“How was it there in-“

“Hell? Hot.”

“It was a serious question.”

He raises his brows, “I thought you were joking.”

“If it was so good, why did you leave?”

He tinkers with a paper.

“Don’t worry Granger, you won’t be visiting there anytime soon considering how much you value your soul.”

She continues making use of the pins inside her box to arrange the items on the board.

“What do you plan to do once your deal is over?”

“There’s a place I’d like to visit to relax.”

“So you’re not going to return to teaching?”

“Gods no. There is a cottage in Devon by the water, where I grew up. And I’ll be spending my days there.”

“As in retired? What about your friends?”

“They’ve lived twenty years without me, I’m sure they can manage another few decades. Besides- you realize how little others care for you when you’ve nothing useful to offer.”

“Well, it must be a pretty exciting cottage. I can’t imagine sitting without work for long in a lawn chair.”

Obviously.

“What are your plans?”

“Well as soon as Robards Jr. sees how capable I am, I will receive my promotion and eventually become one of the Aurors.”

  
“That’s it?”

“It’s plenty! The Auror department helps many wizards not only in our city, but in the entire world. Imagine all of the countries I’d visit and all of the cases I’d solve. And getting my own office and jacket. And of course, everyone would refer to me as Auror Granger from thereon and I won’t have time for our afternoon luncheons with Draco, but it would only be temporary until I become Head Auror. Then I’d be spending most of my days at the head office, devising schemes like Robards Jr..”

  
“Only you’d be much better at it.”

“You think so too?”

“No, I was simply indulging you.”

She giggles, the intoxicating and childish fantasy of herself spinning in the air on the chair in Robards Jr.’s office momentarily making her forget who she had been talking to.

“Of course, Id work very hard, it wouldn’t all be about my title. I’ve never been fully in control of a project. I think it would be so blissful. Can you imagine, I hadn’t even been able to pick who I was studying under when I returned to school. Apparently some rule declares you needed to have picked your Master a year in advance. Not that Macgonagall had been terrible, but I would have liked to work in the Dark Arts like Harry. I hadn’t even attended the entire Convocation ceremony because I was finishing a project. Is it not completely dull to be upset over it?”

“Not at all.”

He looks at her with sincerity. He hadn't attended his own ceremony as he had just joined the Death Eaters. At the time, the prospect of sitting in a stuffy robe with the Potters and Weasleys and Evans' of Hogwarts was as dull a prospect as sorting books by order. 


	17. The Panty Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pansy Parkinson gets what she deserves for being a complete arse to Hermione and the Golden Trio.

Snape was determined to show up at the country club first, however, Hermione had the same idea. It leaves the two of them standing in front of the entrance in the cold air. The main suspect of the case was not at her Charity office. However, Bax discovers she enjoys having dinner at the fine Country Club.

The witch was looking aside, her arms cradling her body. A flimsy jacket that she was desperately trying to wrap around herself and her bare legs.

She was not his witch, however, he did need to make a good impression to get those memories from the locket. He cocks his head to the side, beckoning her inside.

The witch was looking elsewhere, perhaps she had not seen him? He pushes the door open, slamming it into the sidewall and shattering the glass. He had tried to be a half-decent gentleman but ended as unskilled as she was.

Hermione decides to spare the situation by walking ahead yet trips over the pavement. He extends his help only seconds after the incident.

* * *

“Nerves, Granger?”

Snape eyes Hermione’s second-order violet poison. She clinches the glass, straightening her back and tucking the scoop of her blouse by the strap.

She surveyed the scene. Witches in various sensual attire catching her eye. How elegantly they hold themselves, the confidence when they are with masculine energy. She feels her chest flutter, remembering the times Ron had brought her to the Silver Dragon for dinner. She lingers on the feeling of being desired like one could take the whole world and not feel guilty for it. Invincible. 

The wizards in the crowd would be looking at her now, thinking ‘ _she is the type that needs to be ravished.’_

Indeed she praises her bold choice of wear: a deep eggplant dress she sure drew the attention of at least one miserable wizard in the hall.

Snape’s face flashed along her eyelashes. Gazing away she stole peaks at his relaxed fit: cotton top and dark jeans. _Was that a stain on the chest? Gods, he couldn’t have changed for the occasion? Look at his ridiculous expression._

Snape swallowed, arms crossing over his chest and picking at the dark mark.

“What are you drinking?”

He slides the glass over to her, the liquid slurring at the sides. She scrunches her nose at the brewed Monstera.

“A bit pungent?”

He takes a sip.

“You’re just bluffing,” Hermione says. “I’ll have you know that I picked up a book on _Demons: An Infernal History_ and guess what I’ve learned? Apart from the fact that it was written by the most acclaimed and famous researcher in the occult sphere, the facts are that demons are bodiless and lifeless souls. They have no memories, no personality, no distinctive traits. Because of this, no living human or wizard has ever seen one. In fact, demons like angels are only present for people who subscribe to Christianity, which wizards do not and therefore since neither of us are..."

“Then you shouldn’t worry. Clearly, both of us have ours wits about us.”

“Not you. You’re a liar and I’ll bet you’re giving information to my boss about my performance.”

“You saw me through Auror. Really you are so perceptive and knowledgable about demons I’m surprised you haven’t written a book yourself.”

“And Draco is still MY partner, regardless of whether you two are so close. He wouldn’t trade out my secrets to you-”

“You said he was ‘only good’.”

“Good at his job, a good father, good with people- all true about him. Not attractive.”

“Who says he was attractive?”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

“Granger, shut up. Kindly.”

The last word dotted by the approaching steps. Draco arrived at the bar as if summoned (and quite late).

“Hermione, you are stunning….possibly the most stunning partner a man can have in the department. Snape, I don’t know if I'm willing to trade her for you anymore.”

“Malfoy knowing your work habits, I’m bloody surprised Granger hadn’t traded you in already. Frankly, I think even barn owl would have provided more use than you.”

Hermione felt a smile creep onto her face. Her glance instinctively on his; she noted he had the same reaction.

“Draco, go and check on the table.

The man scurried away, making himself look awfully busy peacocking his way around the waitresses.

“What you said wasn’t funny…SNAPE.”

“I wasn’t intending it to be GRANGER.” Specks of his saliva landing on her cheek.

“If you could try to be more polite, you’d find that even Draco is no longer a spoiled brat.”

“Draco?” He pointed at Draco. “Practically snaking out of his skin trying to give you compliments and you use him as your punching bag.”

“I don’t give him punches he can’t take. He was rather rude back in the day.”

“So you have your revenge on him, but I have to keep quiet? You’re a cruel witch Granger. Would you consider taking my place in Hell?”

“Don’t count on it.”

She smiled as she watched Draco take in the room, sharing small talk with all the guests, getting inside information from the serving staff. No matter how many times she cracked down on him, he was a brilliant Auror.

“How many waitresses does it take to summon a table?”

“Snape.”

“Don’t even think of it as a competition.”

“Fine.”

“Granger let’s make it one. What kind of a guardian devil would I be if we hadn't explored your vices.” He raised one brow, his other following. His whole face looking like a mixture of pathetic flirting.

“I say no.”

Draco struts back to the table, a cocktail beside him for Hermione.

“Draco, she likes the mandrake ale, would you mind.”

Draco hesitates, watching Hermione’s expression. She summons over his drink, taking a demonstrative sip.

“Hermione, if you don’t like it, I can get you another.”

“It's _fine,”_ she grits the words through her teeth as she swallows the bitter drink. “Is she here yet?”

Draco eyes a witch surrounded by wizards in shades on all sides- her entourage. She stands still as the register illuminates and a silver pathway along the floor guides her to her table.

Hermione rises from her seat only to be pulled in by Snape.

“Not yet.”

The miss strutted over to her table across the room, her dark hair and cape blending perfectly with the dark outfits of her companions. She trusts the drink to the waiting staff, mouth open and likely telling them a complaint. The demon’s eyes strain as he watches her.

“Draco, you should go.”

“It's my case-“ Hermione interjects. Snape’s hand tight around hers as he eyes her: _don’t even think about it._

In a moment, Draco is at the table and running his hands through his hair. Mrs. Zabini removes her shades and was now coyly grinning at him and the two engaged in active conversation.

“Whose side are you on Snape.” Hermione’s voice snapped. “You want him to win the case and not me?”

Despite his initial protest, she marches over to the couple. What she saw was shocking. At the table, Mrs. Zabini was none other than her school nemesis: Panty-Liner Parkinson.

“Hermione, you’re here too?” The witch was already running her hand over Draco’s. “We were just reminiscing over our days in school.”

“Right, Draco…You had some questions for Pansy?”

“Come on Hermione, we just started talking.” The wizard flexes on the seat, arms stretched behind his back. “What’s the rush?”

The rush? Hermione could not believe it, how come Draco did not understand the urgency of the task. This witch could be the answer to the mystery and he was fraternizing with the foe. However, she did not wish to look stupid by marching back. She had come with a reason and she would leave having completed what she started. She could not bring herself to fetch a chair from a side table. She decided to play angry, crossing her arms in a most serious fashion and hoping her partner would get the hint. One of her two partners. One was enamoured by an old crush, the other looking too engulfed in the background with his drink to care.

“Hermione, you look…strict” Pansy continues. “You Aurors have such a schedule. I could never-”

She runs her own sharpened nails along her dress strap. “Someone has to protect the city.”

Her eyes fixed only on one specific Auror.

“Pansy, your husband was involved in recent activity concerning-“

“My husband, I hardly see the wizard anymore. No one to keep me lonely on those lonely winter nights.” She leans back exposing a full chest of rubies. “Except these babies of course.”

Her eyes no longer on Draco but on a figure standing behind Hermione. She suddenly feels the back of her feet bumping against a wooden board and sinks into a chair. Smokey breath laced with the smell of Monstera Whiskey floats around her neck. Pansy pulls a twist from her purse, eyes in front of her. The outstretched finger flicks, producing a flame for her cigarette. Panty groans and spreads out on her chair.

“You’ll have to excuse us Mrs. Zabini, we were so eager to see you we could hardly keep our hands to ourselves.”

“Please don’t.”

Hermione averts her eyes. For the first time since their encounter, she feels…jealous. It could be that both her partners were idiot enough to fall for Pansy's charms. It could have been that she was the only one serious enough to work the case. Or perhaps her jealousy was that the Demon she so desperately wished to send back to Hell was creating a real fire inside her core. 

She glances at Snape who was holding a serene expression as Pansy drawls on about her husband’s income. To make matters more productive, she takes notes.

“Draco, fetch Mrs. Zabini a martini.”

The less interest Snape took, the more information Panty gave. Hermione admits that although Snape was not as handsome as Draco, his relaxed demeanour and confidence made him unbelievably easy to talk to. That is why Panty had all but handed over Sorcery Security Details to her accomplice. Brilliant and simple.

“Ms. Granger, do you not find Mrs. Pansy's story fascinating?” Snape prompts. Pansy practically plastered all over his broad chest.

“Pansy I find it admirable how much work you put into your husband’s charity work. Surely he could not be the only mastermind behind such an organization.”

“Thank you for noticing Hermione. The asshole doesn’t know how much I do for him.”

“He doesn’t understand what you are capable of. Auror’s may be the leaders in the city, but without such talent organizers as yourself…we would not be able to sponsor any of the greatest activities it has to offer.” Hermione lays the honey into the witch’s ears in a thick layer to complete the now underway heist.

“That is what I told him! The Hippogriff Society is more than a charity ball. I take the organization into my own hands, fire the lot.” Snape lit her next cigarette.

“Fire is a rather strong sentiment from such a…lovely lady. You could convince him to let you organize the ball…invite a few friends in.” He eyes Hermione, indicating his intention. “Surely he would not mind.”

“My husband is a fool, but he can be persuaded.”

By the end of the night, Draco had run to fetch four martinis for Mrs. Zabooni, keeping the waiting staff out of business. Hermione had recorded pages of hidden notes on the details of the organization and Snape managed to secure a place for all three of them at the Hippogriff Society Charity ball next month.

Panky plants a drunken kiss on a close-mouthed Snape sending a frown down both Draco and Hermione’s faces. She slips a small paper inside his fingers. _C_ _all me._

“We got nothing.” Draco grumbles.

Hermione flicks the notebook out of her purse, expecting to see a smile on his face. However, Draco is too upset his ex-girlfriend had spent her whole evening spread out on Snape’s chest. Snape gives him a quick pat (slipping the paper into his coat pocket) and only after that, Draco Apparates home.

Snape and Hermione stand for a while, the cool air welcome. Hermione even pulls her jacket down to let the breeze slip between her top.

“You’re a natural.”

“I’d say it was a good call.”

“You expect applause?”

“A bit excessive. I didn’t write down all the information, but the Zabooni’s could very well be the major suspects. I’ll put in a request for a search warrant with Harry tomorrow morning.”

“Tonight we have personal business.”

“Past ten?”

“In the Queen’s Gardens. Only a few blocks down north.”

Hermione considers it for a moment. She could choose to spend the night with the demon, have drinks, show up to work the next day exhausted. Or she could call it a night and sink into her covers with Crook’s warm tail brushing her cheeks. Only one of those choices she would regret the next morning.


	18. The Softest Thorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a sweet chapter to distract from the murders.

The roses in the gardens glow a certain shade of blue underneath the dancing lights. Both the Demon and Hermione walk in tender appreciation. The witch is practically bottling an African Red Pepper in her belly.

“We can’t be here. Why did I listen to you?"

“Because we have to find one new bloom of green, picked exactly at the 12th hour of the night.”

“With six petals on the outside, a drop of dew on the inside, a supple stem, but only an odd number of thorns- or is it even?”

Snape surpasses her and took a dive into the terrarium, hoping she won't ask him to repeat the set of ingredients he had delivered to her in a specific way off the top of his head. Mainly because he had forgotten what they were as soon as he uttered the words. Her crispy steps follow suite.

She hounds his gaze when he brings up that a certain concoction he’d been developing during his years at the college with the Durmstrang laboratories had inceptive properties and could even help her uncover the meanings behind her dreams. _Seperator Somnia_. The trick was to mention it loudly and leave no room for questioning by avoiding her eyes.

Nose in the air, he smacks his head into some hanging clay pot.

“You’re incredible. Obviously, you think you won’t be caught due to your…talent. I know you can’t possibly be a shape-shifter. But if an Auror is seen in this place at this hour-“

“-shut up.”

“Watch where you’re going! You’re going to lose your head entirely if you don’t watch your step.”

He snarlss in return, the pulsating blow on his forehead calmed with a cooling _Episkey_.

They walk on, the moonlight only covering their steps. She mouthes a silent charm to enter the low glass building. Wards would be kept tight around this season with the Botanist Convention coming; the Ministry would find it difficult to determine if the intruder had been human or a wizard due to the gardens belonging primarily to the Muggle Prime Minister. 

“Delinquency suits you well.” Snape watches as she lifts the wards and fiddles with the security locks.

“You’re always this crass?”

  
“Whenever I have the chance.”

“All because Harry is my friend? I’ve never encouraged his plans. Well, I helped brew the potions. And planned the plans. And tagged along everywhere. Which in hindsight is encouraging. In my defence, they wouldn’t have gotten very far without me.”

“Exactly so.”

“It’s different now that he has children.”

“Talking again about Wesley and Potter ?”

“We have nothing else in common to talk about.”

They both let their hands loose through the leaves, the scratches and the stains of blood would only be noticed by daylight. In blissful ignorance and the _lumos_ from Hermione’s lips, they check the fresh buds in the nursery by the glow of a floating orb.

“You believe that?”

“It’s the truth. Don’t think I’m trying to befriend you or mull inside your head.”

“Haven’t you already?”

Another thorn pricked her finger. “If you’re asking whether I’ve seen your _Pensieve_ , then no. He offered, but I really thought it was too personal.”

“Aren’t you the uncurious type.”

“I have no bone to pick with you, unlike my friends.”

“Besides the little stunt, you with you nearly hexing me senseless in your flat. Brilliantly done, by the way.”

She plucks the bloom and places it inside his jacket pocket. For a moment, their eyes meet and she bites her lip.

“Can I see your cottage?

“No. I can’t take us there.”

“I know.” She reaches for his hand and after a hesitant moment, he takes it. Together they Apparate to Devon.


	19. The Shell Cottage

The tip where her throat meets her nose tightens and her stomach rises as she finds herself digging her boots into sand. She swallows the salty taste and becomes aware that she is still holding Snape’s hand. Snape is equally taken as his hand grasps hers rather tightly. The dawn is just breaking and the white light hits the roof of the dark cottage.

She presses her thumb into his wrist, now feeling his heartbeat pulsating more rapidly than the waves lapping in the distance. Why had he stopped visiting his grandmother? Just how long had it been since he’d seen this particular view.

Finally, her palm feels the damp breeze’s chill as Snape walks on through the sands. She watches him as his silhouette blends with the indescribable shadows of the home. The sound of his feet shuffling through the white carpet as he heads towards the barbed fence make a chill run up her chest and she wraps her cloak around herself. He does not enter the house, simply stopping at the barbed fence and looking off into the distance. Agitated to no end, she strives to see what he is looking at.

As the dawn breaks in light pastels and greys over the horizon, three peaks on a greying hilltop rise in the distance above the cotton grey and white clouds. Small white strikes run across their faces. Their feet hidden by the lapse of cobalt and ash. The lights shuffles from the tips of the hills along the peaks of the sea. As the sky lightens, the sands play in beige and shell tones up until the iron quilt.

Like a breath, the foam exhales and dies out on the edges of the beach and the hills. The cottage stands firms against it’s tumult. The tall slits, like eyes soften their gazes at their passionate outbursts. The sloping grey of the roof shields itself from its griping palms.

Snape asks if he can approach, but it vexes its decision to enter any closer. The fear of his boots would soil the painted specks of the banks. His word - interrupt the careful orchestra of the Water Baron. His very appearance on that idyllic land will prove blasphemous to the High Lord himself. And he keeps his distance in an absolved manner.

She joins him, her footsteps threading softly to not disturb his trance. His hand supporting the wooden column and his shoulders hunched over the pikes. When she walks and stands beside him, hoping he would budge. But he does not. Instead he continues his study. She leans at an angle to catch sight of his face and notices how it seems to have drained of colour entirely. So much that even the grey clouds are more merry than his cheeks. She wonders why he would strive to stay in a place that brings him into such melancholy.

She breaks the barrier of waves by asking him if he is going to go in and say something to his grandmother. He does not deflect the question, she wonders if he even heard her.

“I’m fine here,” he replies, not even bothering to hide the irritation.

“But we’ve Apparated here. Aren’t you even excited to see her?”

“Sure.”

She knew it wasn’t right to push him, but not only had she spent the entire night helping him with his potion (which obviously was sham), but she had done him a favour and he was just standing in at the gates staring at the distance. And then the words flew from her mouth almost inadvertently.

“What if she’s no longer there?”

He looked down at a small crab scuttling by their legs.

“It’s been twenty years since you’ve been thought dead. She very well could be gone-“

“She’s alive.”

“You don’t know that.”

Hermione points to a very suspicious stone she noted just walks from them. Snape would not even meet her eye. The stubborn wizard continued watching the shelled creature making his way out of a small pit left by his foot. He kicks sand on it, pushing the crab further into the ground. But moments later, to his irritation, it scuttles out of the debris and makes its way to the water.

“Just look-“

“I said, I don’t want to look.” He spits the words away, not even bothering to address them to the witch.

“But why, why would anyone not want to know if their loved one is alive? If she is, you would have something to talk about and I’m sure she’d be glad to see you and if not, you would get your answer.”

“Leave the subject.”

Hermione could not. She lets him know if he doesn’t face her, she will go herself. And with one slick bend through a hole in the etching and follows the little crab. The pathway is long lost by the time of the sand, though she notices how flat it is. She looks back to notice if Snape is following, but his bewildered eyes dart away as he notices her. She avoids the stone, the sand is to thick in that area and heads straight for the door. She is also aware how much stronger the wind is against her cheeks.

She really does not want to go the home, she really feels it is too private. However, Snape was acting like an idiot. A complete one at that. When her own non-magical parents had been obliviated by herself twenty years prior, she had visited them as soon as she could and put all her efforts towards keeping them safe. Her parents were the most precious people in her life, regardless of the fact that the curse was not reversed and they no longer remembered who she was. It didn’t matter that they How could he be so callous? Still so callous.

She barely has the time to notice a sharp fall in the sand and slips on her back sliding down the sandy pasture. Its Snape’s fault she is here and her anger boils through an old bruise on her hip. She whips around and calls his name. But his strength of character is clearly much stronger than her own.

“You know who you are?” she snarls as she marches back.

“Well have at it Granger”

She takes a deep breath, trying to stay rational but her irritation gets the best of her. “Why are you like this? Just go there and say something! Anything! It’s been more than twenty years-“

He’s already resolved to leave, running his hand down his face and taking a deep exhale he turns to start walking. Slowly, as though he’s still waiting for her retort.

“You’re a coward Snape and I thought better of you,” she calls after him. Thankfully the sand slows down both of their steps and he turns to her with a scornful expression that stop her dead in her tracks.

“So I’ve been told, witch.”

“Not always, but in this instance-“ She wants a reaction from him: anger, sadness, refusal. Anything except the furrowed brow and hunched stance he’s showing her right now. He curses under his breath, but soon, he slows down and waits for her to match his pace.

The house fades into the distance. He draws his own sweater upwards toward his neck and sniffles his nose.

“She’s probably asleep.”

The dawn birds began their songs. Gulls sang above them, their wings slicing through the murky sky. The first rays of sun cast two gentle shadows in the sand. The barren ground, hard and cold opens to a field of soft grasses and the smell of clover reaches their noses.

“Not all of us want to know the truth. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“In my line of work, they do.”

“Like I said. The bobs do what men like Robards Jr. tell them to do. And Robards Jr. does what the Minister wants. The rest of the city be damned. Even if they have to go to war to prove themselves,” he states. Hermione wonders to herself what had the Auror department done to cause such scorn in his eyes.

“They want what’s best.”

“The best is subjective. Take yourself, why do you want to become Auror?”

Hermione had to think about the question for a moment. Snape kicked at anouther dandelion, the white specks floating to the sky. She wondered about their fates- the white umbrellas. Would they find a home? A part of her wanted to cup them up and plant them into a patch of land by the sea cottage.

“The same as anyone else, to help make the world more just.”

“Why you bothered to join with that idealism of yours confuses me. Bobs are not known to be fair.”

“Doesn’t it just prove my point? I’d make a good Auror.”

“Not the best, but good. A certain level of cynicism and brutality would bring you further up the ranks.”

It sounds like a sobering truth that Hermione does not want to hear. He reaches for the next dandelion, but she beats him to it- crushing it to the ground. Then the next and next. Wishing to piss him off. However he only laughs and she finds herself the one feeling peeved.

As soon as they reach the Port Key, she grabs at his shoulders and doesn’t even bother to hold on tightly. Snape nearly knocks over a gentle-wizard taking a leak in the back alley. He barely protests when Snape flashes him a grimace so deadly he barely has time to zip his pants before flying back onto the main street. Now it is Hermione’s turn to laugh.

That morning, the residents of the small village by Devon wake up at 7 o’clock to the sound of the church bells ringing three times. Luckily back in London, for the first time in years, the 7 o’clock strike brings exactly seven bell pounds at St. Martin’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trigger Warning* the next chapter is one of the chapters whereby this work is rated Mature and has references to abuse.  
> This is a chapter I really loved writing. If anyone is curious, here is my inspiration to the Shell Cottage: https://images.pexels.com/photos/6152113/pexels-photo-6152113.jpeg?auto=compress&cs=tinysrgb&h=750&w=1260


	20. The Friends in Low Places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trigger warning*
> 
> Also Snape has Hungarian ancestry from Tobias Snape's side.

“Fiu* (son) Toby”

There had to be something good about his father that young Snape didn’t notice. Watching Nagyi (*grandma) Piroska’s hug the tall and lanky man filled young Snape with hope that kindness lived in his heart. Tobias Snape sneers as his elderly mother holds his cheek.

From the back window of the car, Snape watches his mother’s angelic face. She was an ethereal being – his mother. Eileen’s face glowed with white – like a dove. Nobody in his town was as white as her. Chalk white. She wrapped her wings of woollen shawl around her hands. He had never seen her bare arms. Or her legs. Or her face in the mornings. A few times, he had peaked into her room to catch a glimpse of her untouched skin, but she ran to the door in horror and shut it. Moments later, she would appear in the kitchen, white as a lily flower and cheerful as always.

His mother was also quiet as an angel. That is why their neighbours and the parish goers at his grandmother’s church had only spoken of her in whispers. As if her name says aloud would somehow dissolve her into an array of feathers. And he had been the angel’s son. Little Sev.

His favourite family member was his grandmother: Nagyi Piroska. A mix of firm Hungarian discipline and gentle wrinkles. His mother should have been horrified her son chose to spend two weekends a month with a Catholic who beseeched witchcraft in its purest form. However, neither Eileen nor Sev discussed the matter. And every second weekend, a careful stoop of ironed and laundered shirts reeking of floral detergent lie waiting inside his suitcase.

Nagyi’s shirts, Sev called them as they were only worn when he visited his grandmother. Like some special ceremonial garments, the shirts were tucked in a far cupboard of the house wrapped in bags. When he didn’t visit her, Sev would sneak into the little sunroom and pull the shirts out of the packaging, burying his nose into their scent. His other clothes smelled of his father: some smoke and liqor.

Nagyi bought him clothing before: a handsome dark shirt with velvet buttons down the middle, a high neck and clasps around the arms. He would not remove it even when he come back home. His mam ran him a bath that evening because she missed him so, but when he dried off, the shirt was gone and never to be seen again.

“ _We can afford clothes. We aren’t charity cases,”_ she explained.

As he watched the Priest fix his own velvet buttons after lowering the wine filled chalice, Snape pictured Nagyi grasping his scrubs little hand and dragging him down the carpeted aisles of her church to receive Communion. Not that Snape wanted to be a Catholic, but smelling the wine from the golden cup was better than smelling it off his father’s mouth as he tucked him into bed.

Two weekends a month meant two visits to the Sunday mass. After Eileen blurted that her son was to become a wizard, Nagyi become occupied with dragging Sev to celebrate every possible Saints day.

He did not mind- the church was always warm and smelled of melting wax and old books. His bony bottom soon become used to the hard wooden benches. He even took a liking to the Priest’s declarations that ‘the guilty would be punished’. His Nagyi would whisper the names of his parents when that line come up and he considered it some sort of good omen.

The Priests, he had always loved them. Those high buttoned collars, the dark regalia, the safe rounded buttons he wanted to touch. Listening to the cermons, a part of young Snape wished that the priest had been his father. The Priest was calm, he listened and when he speaks, it brought a gentle stillness to his heart. He had never met an adult quiet as safe as him.

There was always a coffee break at the end where he could have as many helpings of apple strudel and shortbread biscuits as he wanted while the old ladies whispered and looks at him with pity that it made him want to devour the entire table of sweets.

But the beautiful dream would end and Nagyi Piroska would bring him back home. His father would look calmer than before he leaves. His mother- whiter and more quiet. His shirts would be tucked safely into the cupboard like nothing happened.

\--

“Snape?” The name pulls him from his memories.

“You’ve been coming for the past three weeks, but this is the first time you’ve volunteered to share with us.”

The truth was, he had been coming for years. The chair, he had sat in it before and the wizards and wizards around him he recognized. Only after the events at the Auror office did he realize he had a fact worth sharing.

“Not sure where to begin.” Snape shrunk back into his chair. “My name is Severus Snape. I’m a recovering convict.”

The crowd echoed their approval in unison.

“You seem concerned. What were you thinking of just now?” The Priest leans forward.

A question asked out of respect and curiosity more out of judgement. Snape had killed, death come at his own hands and at his lack of interference. In murder, it wasn’t the spark of green, flashing light mortifying its victims nor was it the dead corpse gracing the floor that frightened him. It was the moment before the curse hit their body. How many moments had they regretted, how many words unspoken before the light faded from them in that green haze. This is what had he regretted before the fangs sank into his neck years before.

“I have to keep living. Not sure I’ll ever repay my debt, if my penance will be enough.”

Grey-hood nods and speaks up, “Dregs don’t have a pound that shines bright enough. My old-lady won’t touch my money, says its dirty. I say, nothing dirtier than the bin she calls her home. Too proud to accept my honest money- that one.”

Needle pulls out of his pits and looks to Snape. “Mate, if crime had a price, it would cost more than ten years in prison.”

“Costs as much as that fucking rose garden. Read it in the headline: Osiria blooms from the forests of New Zealand. Ask me? The dandy calling himself the Minister payed in dirt for more dirt to cover his own dirt.”

The members of the Support Group errupted before the stern glance of the Priest interrupted them.

“Snape we might never repay the debts of the past. But we can make a different choice every day.”

The men shifts in their seats as if to say _there he goes spitting his religious crap on us again._ The session ended with a gleeful farewell and thank-yous.

“Snape you comin’?” Needle beckons.

Snape looks at the crumpled bag of digestive biscuits falling out of some inside pocket in his jacket. Then he accepts the Priests offer to spend the night in the Mission Group lounge downstairs of the church instead of in the arms of Needle’s sister with a bottle of whiskey cradled beside her breast.


	21. The White Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trigger warning*

Hermione had grown quite used to her increasingly vivid dreams. And oftentimes, they intrigued her like one of her father’s little block puzzles. Each twist of the block gave her a different insight. Now that she knows her memories are intertwined with Snape’s she cannot help, but to travel closer and deeper inside the mind of the mysterious Master.

Tonight, disobeying his rules, she slips the locket over her head and closes her eyes. Ridiculous, she was nearly fourty and working for the most prestigious employer and still looking for the approval of Snape. She needs to remember more often that they are both the same age and frankly, have the same life position.

In a moment, she appears again inside the Muggle police station. Now that she’s inside and aware, it seems rather large. Or perhaps she had grown very small. The voices ahead are those of two men. She inches forward to get a closer look.

Beyond the stand tower two policemen. Not Aurors, the Muggle kind. Their golden buttons glisten under the lamplight and their faces muzzled by the hats.

“Stay here” hisses a woman, nearly sending Hermione into a panic. Her white hand grasps her tiny shoulder. She reaches instinctively for her hand, but her pockets hold only a clump of dried flowers and some notes. She opens one and reads:

_Two petals – daisy….one tablespoon ground willow-root….wings …. housefly …ground thrice by mortar…_

The rest of the writing quite messy, but clear it is the recipe for a potion. She attempts to read the rest but the woman snatches it from her hand and crumbles it into the wastebin on her way to the officers. And Hermione realizes she must be in the body of young Severus and the woman, his mother or aunt.

“Mrs. Snape….husband is due…sum….bail….” are the words she picks out of their hushed conversation. The woman, white as a sheet now grows even whiter in comparison to their dark jackets is fumbling with her shawl.

“Nothing…I’m so sorry…”

“There’s nothing more we can do without the money.”

“He is the only one working…oh please….we can’t make ends meet…” Mrs. Snape’s voice quivers. She glances nervously at her and the men’s gazes follow. Their eyes with a pity that makes Hermione want to disappear into the shadows behind her. And this is exactly what she does, because it is her dream. Their dream with Snape.

She crawls under the large desk behind her and shifts towards the cabinets. From the point, she can see Mrs. Snape’s face more clearly.

The woman looks rather beautiful, her skin white like the sun glaring off the glass of the window.   
She appears like a ghost into the light. Her hair, dark and tied back into a neat updo. As she speaks, the men nod in feign disinterest. The conversation is over without really having begun and both parties seem to be going through the motions towards the inevitable conclusion. Like a dance.

The woman’s body is sallow, like she could blow away with every spoken word. And she hunches lower and lower as the dark capes swallow her presence.

“Why is it that pretty things like that end up with Snapes,” says a voice behind her. Another badge drinking a coffee and eyeing Sev’s mother.

“A hag for a beater. The perfect match,” anouther one adds grimly. He barely looks away from some writing on his desk.

“Don’t matter that she’s a hag when he’s taking her from behind. They all look the same from there.” And he imitated the act as he headed towards the back room. 

The men laugh and Mrs. Snape stands taller and keeps her eyes on the two cops before her. Hermione feels sick, she has to leave immediantly. She can no longer watch what will come next as Mrs. Snape heads into the backroom.

She slips through the door and nobody tries to stop her.

“The wicked little bastard” they laugh after her.

She runs down the corners, now back in the market. The fruit stands before her, but she takes a sharp right. Now everything grows taller and taller until she is one with the doors she passes.

A small cottage before her. Not Sev’s Nagyi’s, but one with a wonderful warmth. She suddenly feels the pull to stop, the cottage draws her closer into its gates. Her mind now swimming with images of Mrs. Snape and the kind of treatment she received makes her want to bury her head in the rose bushes. She can no longer imagine anything but their large hands groping the thin white hips and bending her over the table. And she would do it willingly for the family. Anything right now to erase the image.

She threads behind the house. A low hilltop with a large oak and from the oak, a swing. As she comes closer, a girl in a paisley blue dress and soft red curls swings back and forth.

Hermione’s heart flutters. Her daughter. That same daughter who haunted her dreams. Her and Ron’s little girl. She runs forwards. The girl stops and noticing the approaching figure jumps off the swing and runs towards the house.

“Stop please! Stop!” She realizes she never gave her daughter her name. But she calls it out anyways. “Rose!”

The girl continues running until she reaches the cottage.


	22. The Lost Lily

Days later, Hermione once again finds herself at the cottage. Now she cannot scare off the girl like she did last time. She approaches slowly, the girl is now sitting in the garden and picking some herbs. As she comes closer, she notices sparks flying off her hands. She is enchanting – or practicing.

The seeds before her grow into a ripe papaya. She holds the spell for seconds too long and fruit begins to ripen and smell. The ends begin to shrivel.

When the girl notices her, she stands up and chips a spell. The light flicks off Hermione’s shirt, barely budging the fabric. She runs off towards the house. The papaya falling to the floor, cracking into pieces of blue, fragrant flesh.

“Wait…Lily!”

Lily stands at the door banging at it relentlessly. Nobody answers. She presses her body to the door like a scared little animal. In her hands a stick, carved to the shape of a wand pointed straight at her and her eyes are aflame like her red hair.

“I’ll….hoax you!”

“Hex. It’s a German word originally . Though you’ll probably need a better wand to do a proper one.” The girl continued to stubbornly hold the shaved willow wand at her chest and Hermione had to admire her bravery. She lifted her own over-clothes to show her she was unarmed.

“I’m Snape’s friend. Sev , the little boy with the dark hair…he lives down by the old lane.”

The look on the girl’s expression was blank and she lied she’d never seen him. Or perhaps, Snape hadn’t been her friend yet and she was telling the truth. She was really quite pretty for a girl. Her long locks were carefully combed into two red braids behind her back and she had very charming freckles over her face. Even as she was fumbling with the doorknob behind her back, she looked very sensible.

“I’m a friend of your parents,” she continued, realizing she had never bothered to ask Harry their names. Now her case seemed more sketchy. Had she been Lily Evans, she would not believe the tall stranger fumbling for her words right now.

“You were practicing witchcraft, I saw you charming in the garden.”

“I’m a good girl. I swear it! Ask my teacher Mrs. Plume. I always get good marks. And Mrs. Hesting down the street gives me lollies for watering her flowers.” The makeshift wand draws back into her skirt pocket. “I was only playing, nothing really.”

“Well I’m a witch too.”

Lily asks her to prove it. She lifts her arms and the girl struggles back. Her own capes have no wand inside them, but Hermione produces a simple spell with a wave of her hand causing the herbs to instantly grow and bloom. Neville would have been quite proud.

“What’s your name?” Lily asks. Hermione introduces herself.

“You’re really pretty. Like really pretty. The prettiest person I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you, you’re really pretty as well. You remind me of my daughter. I thought you were her last time I saw you swinging on the hill. Sorry I scared you.”

Lily still hanging onto the doorknob behind her back wiggles. Perhaps she hadn’t remembered me.

“Is she here?”

“No she...passed. She would have looked like you. Her father has red hair and freckles.”

Lily’s hands relaxed. “Where is she?”

Hermione found it rather odd that she was having this conversation with a girl no older than eight, but Lily looked rather smart for her age.

“There was an accident and I lost her.”

“That’s sad. One time I lost my pet toad. I caught him by the bog and mum said I could keep him in a pickle jar. Then my stupid sister put him in the radishes at night. I never saw him again.”

“That’s not the same,” Hermione snapped.

“Maybe she’s in the radishes too? Mum says you gotta look for things where you last put them. Well I looked and looked but he hopped back.”

The girl now crosses her hand into her pockets. Hermione realizes she upset her and quickly changes the subject.

“What was your toad’s name?”

“Harry .”

Hermione’s tenseness explodes to laughter. “Harry ? That’s a proper boy’s name!”

“There’s a boy named Harry in my class and he is rather mean. He’s always pulling on my braids and testing to take my lunch away. But I thought a slimy toad would have a good twin in him.”

Hermione asks if Sev is also in her class and the girl shifts away from the doorknob and answers that he is.

“Mum says I can play with whomever I want. But Sev doesn’t come to school much. He sneaks through the rose bushes sometimes when Petty and I are playing.”

“One of these days, you should go up to those rose bushes and ask him to play. He’s a wizard too you know?”

Lily’s emeralds light up. “He’s just odd.”

“That he is too,” Hermione agreed. Odd, lonely, but rather considerate and docile. And incredibly compassionate when he shows it. But for the next thirty years none of that would be seen by Lily. And then she remembers that in thirty years Lily will no longer be alive and that makes her sad. She casts _Alohomora_ and the door behind Lily opens. And she waves goodbye as she exits the gate.

“Bye Hermione.” She waves her hands in the air and jumps up to see her off.

“You will find your Harry someday. I know it. But for now…” She casts a spell and summons a slimey green hopper into the girl’s hands.

And as she radiates off the wooden steps for the last time before waving to her through the upstairs window, Hermione realizes what Hagrid the Keeper meant by everyone loving Lily. The kindest soul in the world. Now she was squeezing the life out of the little green bundle as if it were a pillow. Even ten minutes with her, she felt considerably elevated.

And just like she fell asleep, she woke suddenly to the sound of Crooks purring beside her.


	23. The Million Scarlet Roses

The first notes of spring were marked in a Scarlet Red.

Hermione Granger was brewing herself a cup of coffee when Crooks gestures to the windows. Hermione could not believe her eyes at the sight.

All along Baker Street, there are scarlet roses blooming. They line the windows of the brick homes. They bloom from the carelessly cut hedges. They stand in flower pots in Mrs. Diggory’s front yard. Even the lampposts are decorated in red.

All along the street, children, mothers with strollers, and the elderly marvel at the sight. Like the First Snow, they bathe in the petals, tossing them into the air and running through.

Mrs. Diggory runs inside to fetch her spectacles while her pups Pip and Frodo start digging up mounds of the blooms onto the pavement.

The postman arrives in the most unamused mood, slipping in a mound of mud from the puppy's digs and landing flat on his buttocks.

“Blasted hippies, what dickhead did this?”

“A fool in love.” Mrs. Diggory gushed.

Hermione was quite sure she knew who that fool was as she mounted the elevator in an elevated mood. Draco mimicked her energy in the staff room, pulling out the copy of Daily Prophet and showing to anyone who would listen.

” **Queen Mary’s Gardens defaced.**

At 8:30 this morning, the doors of the long-awaited Scarlet Rose exhibit opened to a most explicit sight. Hundreds of blooms unearthed in a most peculiar shape. We would like to know if the criminal responsible for this act was trying to expose the affair of our _playful_ President OR trying to send a subtle hint to one lucky witch. ~R. Skeeter”

Below the article, a moving photo from the gardens. The roses removed from the center of the land in the shape of a giant penis.

“Disgusting,” Harry scoffs when he examines the photo. “Your work Draco?”

“I wish! This is bloody brilliant” Draco could not contain his laughter. He claps his hands as though congratulating himself for a job well done sending a roar of laughter through the staff room. It only stopped when their boss Mr. Robards Jr. clears his throat at the doorstep.

\--

Snape is seated in his usual chair in their shared office. He glances up twice to notice her coming in.

“You weren’t in the break room this morning.”

“I was working.” Snape makes himself look awefully busy by sorting through a stack of suspect photos.

“You missed an interesting case.” The Demon does not flinch as she speaks. 

Hermione continues. “Apparently someone had picked hundreds of roses from the Queen’s gardens and had them transported to my street.”

“Imagine that.” Snape focuses on the photo of one particular wizard. “You have a particular culprit in mind?”

“I do.” Hermione inches closer.

“What would you with them? Assuming you found out who defaced the gardens.”

“I would _rip_ their hands out! Wouldn’t you…Snape?” Her curls practically standing on her head.

“Why would I? I have nothing to do with it.”

“Show me your hands.” The demon hiding his behind his back. She dictates her request again.

“Snape how could you be so bloody irresponsible? You work for the Ministry-”

“I do not work for anyone.”

“You are right now. You know how Robards Jr. feels about the Minister. You know it! I’ll bet your self got together with Draco to do this…just to spite him.”

“Should I remind you that your little biscuit boxes don’t appear at home out of thin air…or have we forgotten our vendetta against Robards Jr.? I admit defacing the gardens is a much better way or spiting him.”

Her eyes pierced through his and for some odd reason she had the urge to hex him right then and there.

“And even though you took no part in the enchantments, I wouldn’t put it past you to organize the heist with Draco.”

“Making a joke at my expense. That’s low, even for you Granger. Spiteful as I am, a thief and a bully I am not. I am no longer…not any longer.” He corrects himself, realizing very quickly, where this conversation could lead.

Snape gets up from his seat and approaches her; only now she notices how menacing he was in anger. He did not say a word, but his stance alone was enough to send a shiver down her spine.

“Well I never said you were, I just assumed since the both of you had the Mistress Garden theory. And you being my Guardian ... Maybe you did it to….never mind. Really it could be anyone.”

“How lovely is it Hermione to be basking in the attention? A million scarlet roses right at your doorstep. You are practically a step away from becoming the future wife of the Minister. I suppose he’s sending you the ring by owl right now, unless Robards Jr. gets it first.”

“Oh you are sarcastic _and_ nasty Sev .”

“Well which one is it? Because you always lean towards the second. Uptight as you are. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh at a single one of my remarks though I really attempt to make you smile.”

“You can’t always be funny or clever.”

  
“Draco seems to think so,” Snape mumbles.

“Then maybe you should be his guardian. Since you two are such chums. You’ve already stolen some roses with him. All you need is a couples of tuxs and you’ll be on your merry way down to the alter.”

Snape leaves the room and it was not to do either of those acts. Moments later, he expectably returns.

“Let me ask you Granger, are you more angry at the fact the roses were stolen to spite Draco or that they weren’t meant for you?”

Her silence gave him his answer.

\---

Her roses.

Hermione remembered their taste. Grass-like with a hint of perfume that stung the tip of the tongue.

When she had been only five, her father had taken her to round in the market. She was so excited to go out alone that she hardly slept that night. She spent the evening writing out a checklist of all the items they would need to buy, carefully drawing checkboxes beside each one so they would not forget. Then in the morning, it rains and her mother insisted she wear her rain jacket. Upon their arrival, she reached into her pocket, remembering that the list was in her other jacket and cried. Her father, grabs her by the hand.

_Mione, we will find them anyways._

Like he promised, he remembered ever last detail. _I am a dentist after all._ He reminded her.

That day, they passed by the most beautiful stand of blooms of every colour. The flowers were so vibrant, she reached out and plucked an entire bloom into her mouth. The taste was so bitter she spat it right out.

Thinking back, her father should have scolded her. The man laughed and laughed and apologized to the stand owner. He bought her the entire bouquet. _Don’t eat them before breakfast, Mione._ He warned her.

She remembered sitting on his shoulders as they circled the market, her hands squeezing the flowers so she would not lose the boquet before they arrived home.

_Mione's roses._

She smiled, biting her lip.

Then she remembered the red-headed girl with the green eyes. Would Ron have taken her to the market like that? Would Snape?

Snape, Gods she had almost forgotten about him. What did he have to do with any of this?

She felt incredibly guilty. All this time, she had been so focused on wizards that she had forgotten her lost daughter, the reason she had been so Sev ant about keeping the memories in the first place. She had come to terms with her death, but not why she was gone. And everything lead her back to that day three years ago. What had happened that day?

No matter how hard Hermione thinks, she was not able to put the pieces together. Almost as though a blank was drawn in her mind. Ron had a new witch, Ron had a child on the way…but three years ago, she was sure he was the father of hers.

She vowed to find out, once and for all by doing the inevitable.


	24. The Arousal in the Moonlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more feels for Snape.

He had not done it, the roses.

Though the way she lunged for him– he would have unearthed the whole garden for her that very moment. 

Blood escaping his ears, his throat, his nostrils, he would have plucked every scarlet bloom from those soils, carried them to her doorstep. He would have placed them inside every coffee stained mug in her flat, pressed them between the pages of her books, strung them into the carpet so she would always be surrounded by their wilting and beautiful scent.

Like so.

She ran to him, with such vigour that she could crash into him. She could dissolve him into a million shards. Become one with his heated body. Melt into his embrace. He shifts underneath the sheets. Every fiber wanting to shake them off- to suffocate themselves. To disappear from her forever.

Truthfully, Hermione scares him. Her eyes. Her touch. Her voice. Her very presence.   
Satan be damned in Hell. He would sooner rot in the cauldrons of eternal agony than see her eyes burn through him anouther time. The way the little folds crinkle on the corners as she speaks, he did not make out a single word she says. Lashes furiously closing, each strand brushing against the next and the dark circles darting around. His throat clasped long after she leaves.

As he lies on the cot, the moonlight streaming in through the windows of the shelter, his stomach turns and turns and his heart would not let him rest. The sheets now a sea of waves. His shirt was in the way, the folds of his pants. He was burning from within, feverish and sick. He could empty his insides, but he kept the urge in a moment longer. The pain and discomfort folding and bending inside.

Hermione. Hermione. Hermione.

He did not love Hermione. Though if he could admit it, he would realize how helpless he feels in her presence. If she would come to him at this very instant, to apparate in front of the doors so he could run into her embrace. Hold out her hands, pull him from the depths of the sheets, docile in the moonlight, running where they would not be found. He turns to the side, the bed wet to the touch. He clenches his knees to himself forgetting the entire day. Shameful. He had to sleep tonight.

Satan’s suffering, perhaps, was not the burning fires and sculding caldrons of hell. Nor were they the pitchforks cutting into their rotting, sinful flesh. Suffering was knowing Hermione Granger was not with him.

She slept among the millions of scarlet blooms of Baker street. The thorned gaurdians guiding her. Hermione and the roses. Hermione in the roses. Rose petals on her sheets. Thorny stems tangled through her weaves. Scarlet petals brushing her lips as she bit on their heads. Her breath, staggered. She exhaled, her lips forming his name. Her hands, sinking into the sea to find herself, finding him.

A is for asphodel. B is for bloodroot. C for –

“Mate?”

In the haze of morning, the young boy from the diner appeared beside him. The incompetent cousin. The chill air yanked him from his sleep. What did he bloody want?

“There’s a delivery for ya. Combo Number Three.”

Number Three? NUMBER THREE. His eyes tighten and his stomach knots as he throws the blanket aside.

“I’m just passing on the message. He wants you to pick it up today. Shit is that real gold man? You rich or somethin’”

“Don’t touch that.” The Cousin hastily lowers the golden chalice down. Snape follows him out on case he decides to snatch up anouther one of the Priests’ posessions.

As his scrawny figure disappeared into the sound of cars and the whirl of the Magic Trolley, Snape harks out the sleep into a nearby bush. He could go for a smoke now. The bearded man passed out on the bench watches him. So did some student with a wool coat and an even pricklier expression.

He hadn’t sent for him before. Snape had always come to the little Fish and Chips diner by himself, expecting absolutely nothing. But for him to be summoned by the owner himself? The voice that had knocked him across the floor, breathless and senseless. Snape released the iron doorknob and enters the church. The wooden door heaved shut and he noticed a soreness to the hand holding it.

The Master had summoned him.


	25. The Afternoon Affair

Pansy should not wear heels. At three in the afternoon, she had stumbled twice in the presence of her guests before tossing the slips aside and walking barefoot through the rich, Persian carpet.

“Drinks?”

Hermione and Harry watch as she serves half a bottle of whiskey to the carpet before allowing Harry to help. Four glasses wait with their mouthes open. She released her spell and the bottle collapses as it hits the floor and scatters into a million shards.

“I wouldn’t have ended it- through murder I mean,” she says as she sinks into the chaise. “Blaise knew about Crabbe and I. Not that he gave a shit“

“Blaise is the main suspect. You know he has a clear motivation,” Harry probes.

“He isn’t shit. Ask him who he was with the night Vinny was murdered. Ask him! One of those sluts from the society, probably the blonde one.

“Vincent and I, we wanted to run away you know. He had called me the night he was murdered and he sounded so excited. Says he won a very important prize and we would have enough money to run away together. Oh Vinny.”

After Vincent Crabbe was found piked inside the bakery, the Zabini family become the clearest targets for suspicion. However after an hour, all Pansy confessed to was becoming wasted before lunch and laughing uncontrollably at her clumsiness.

“Where’s your handsome friend? The bartender from the Country Club?” she asked, forgetting she was just crying over her dead lover.

* * *

Snape had been in a mood today. He apparated alongside her and Harry in complete silence, but not before Harry brought up the Rose Garden Incident and Snape muttered an off-handed comment about the wrongdoers orientation. Hermione interjected, after which he gave them both silent treatment and disappeared upstairs right after being greeted by the maid at the doorstep.

Now Hermione had been looking for any traces on the victim’s clothing and shoes that might connect the man to the murder. The mere sound of Snape rusting through the drawers in the adjacent room grits at her nerves.

“Get the other jacket.”

“She’s been nicking money from the charity society.” Snape produces a pile of cheques and records.

“We don’t have a warrant to look there!”

“You following the rules are exactly why you are brown-nosing her husband’s closet while Harry is out there questioning the suspect and getting all the credit. At least bury your nose into something useful.”

Hermione found herself handling what appears to be the Zabini's cheque book for their charity (The Hippogriff Society). She absorbs the numbers on the page calculating the differences between multiple columns before Snape’s figure loomed frustruation.

“Are you trying to intimidate me?”

“Hardly.”

“Then go away. Unless you want to apologize?” He chose the first option.

After what seems like ages, the numbers merge into one giant swamp inside her head. Snape was probably used to measuring quantities of ingredients in his class and catching students who nicked his supplies, but him breathing down her neck in an already tense situation was testing her patience.

“Don’t you find it unusual that the book was so easy for me to find? Almost as though it was left for us.”

“Why would Blaise want us to find his illegal dealings?”

“Not Blaise.”

She scoffed. “Why would Pansy want her husband arrested? They’re both co-owners of the charity. Its in her best interest to keep any illegal dealings a secret. I’d need to take these home overnight to check-“

“-because you’re looking at them the bloody wrong way. Parchments look like they’ve been recently replaced, even the ones from twenty years ago.” He holds the papyrus up to the light to notice they had no signs of fray or spills.

“Maybe they decided to update.”

“Update? Blaise could hardly keep track of his finger by the knife, nevermind such meticulous matters like rewriting documents. This whole room looks like it’s been charmed to St. Mungo’s level of cleanliness unlike the rest of their house. They’re hiding evidence. And there is no chance they could afford these apartments with the income from their little charity. I know Zabini and Parkinson are both too bloody lazy to have anouther job.”

“I’m taking notes anyway to examine them at home.”

“You’ll find what I says you’d find.”

“First, your theory is just a hypothesis. Second, I need to check the information-“

“-you wanted my help-“

“THIRD, he might be-“

“-they’re all the blood- same. Zabinis, those fisted types. His father was greedy and his son a carbon copy-“

“Sorcerers can change.”

“Unlikely.” His gaze now aiming directly at her. “You’re still the most maddeningly insufferable-“

“What?” Fuming in anticipation, she waits for a moment longer for his reply. Whatever opinion of her he formed in his mouth was swallowed. Threat subsiding, she snatches the parchment out of his fingers and replacing it on Blaise’s desk. She turns to exit when she noticed Snape putting the book back into his coat lapel.

“In case you really doubt my expertise, not that I needed to prove myself after years of work as a double agent for the Dark Lord-“

“-which was almost thirty years ago.” .

“You are getting on my last nerve Granger.”

“I’ve just about had it with you too! Guardian Devil you are, you’re a judgmental prick and as far as I’m concerned you’ve had a bone to pick with me since the day we met.”

“ _Shame?”_ Now immersed in her personal space, their breaths link. ”Living when your friends are either dead or in prison, knowing nothing you will ever do will repay your debt. Wishing they were alive instead off you. You know what this feels like?”

“Stop.”

“What more? You will never amount to anything because you are emotional, weak, too naïve and idealistic for your own good. You did well on your tests and you think you deserve to be recognized for your efforts. Forget it. Wizards like you. Like me. We will always be scum in the gutter. So don’t try to _shame_ me Granger.”

“Wizards like me are the reason the Ministry is still running. And if you hadn’t been such a coward-“

“Don’t you dare-“

“Stop interrupting me. If you had stayed and put your talents into the industry we would be closer to solving cases. But all you want is to live in some ideal little cottage and have nothing to do with the world at large.”

“I’ve payed my dues.”  
  


“But you could do so much more. With your talent, your experience. Think of all the people you would be helping.”  
“Do you want to know the truth Granger? People don’t give a shit about what you do for them. They forget it and often, they don’t even thank you. And you spend your entire life trying to help and none of it matters.”

“But you don’t help people for recognition. You do it because it is the right thing.”

“The right thing? For whom? As far as I’m concerned, the right thing would be for me to sit in my cottage without a bother in the world. Without bothering anyone. And I don’t expect you to understand.”

Draco, Harry and one intoxicated fabulous Pansy stumble into a scene that would mark their minds. In the office, Hermione and Snape are intertwined tightly in a passionate embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!


	26. The Australian’s Cola

She had to focus on the numbers below, but her mind would cloud and furl. Sending a quick note to Draco, she curls back under the blankets for anouther hour, vowing she would work diligently from home. However no matter which columns she combines, there was no evidence the galleons were being taken from the Zabini charity account to fund an alternative operation. Snape had been wrong, and that alone spread a smile on her face as she nuzzled into the cotton.

But the following day when she was to rub Snape’s nose in the dirt, he had not come to work. But that following day, a new development appeared. 

“Look here, two blows in the head- front and back. Vincent Crabbe only fell forward, so the back blow was delivered before.” Harry says.

“Assulted and then tossed into the Portkey to frame it as a murder? I’d have to double check the symbols from the Hemogauge analysis again and maybe forensics could help match it with a weapon.”

“He owns the marina,” Snape interrupts

“You think we will find the weapon in the marina?” Hermione asks.

“I imagine Zabooni is not so imaginative and I’m sure he visits the place often judging by the amount of gear in his rooms.”

She mentioned the marina in her notes the night at the Club with Pansy. The fact he had read them, despite his constant critiques of her having her nose in the paper was quite sweet. 

“I enjoy reading for…leisure.”

* * *

Sombre waves slushed at the wooden blocks beneath the docks. If there was a benefit to working with Snape, it was his consistent desire to plow through without politesse or question. They found themselves at the edge of finding a new clue.

“You weren’t at work yesterday?” she asks, breaking the silence.

“I had a commitment.” He caught up his pace with her. “It’s in line with-. The reason I was sent back here.”

“Devil’s Business?”

He agreed.

“If you’re still considering the theory of the roses being from myself, then I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’m not a romantic.”

Hermione plowed the gravel with her toes as the keeper approached them with a wave. “You took a while to tell me the truth for someone with a clean conscience.”

“I was curious to see how events would plie out. On a more serious note, you were framed,” he quickly added, sensing her disappointment.

“A ridiculous theory. Who would want to frame me?”

The keeper of the marina approached and the checkers on his shirt dried like flags after a summer rainfall.

“Top of the morning to ya. What boat can I fetch a lovely yun couple?”

Perhaps it was too bright today for the flash of her badge, which normally set her intentions clear, but the man was all to eager to ignore it in hopes of suggesting a boat for them.

“We have a warrant to examine your storage.”

“My storage? I keep my bases clean and kept ma’am, but yeh can definitely take a look.’”

**-**

Ginny would have enjoyed the place. Harry rolled his eyes as she suggested going for an underwater sightseeing tour in Bermuda with complete seriousness. The entire storage was exactly as the Autralian suggested: clean and kept. The snorklers in a labeled box. Some light from the shed blocks seeping through the window. Hermione spelled a light: Snape and his new mate keeping conversation behind her. He was sucking on the Marmite lolly. She had scolded him – what if it had been poisoned, but Snape assured her that wouldn’t kill him if it tried to.

“Can’t see past my nose,” Snape says as he lifted some container with his toe.

The Australian flicked his fingers and the bulbs suspended on tethering ropes plieed along the racks with scuba gear. A coldness struck Hermione’s ankle as she punctured down.

“Fillobies- nasty little grub. Been keepin’ em out with some pickled ArrowRoot, but they keep comin’ in with the waters, ya know?” He zapped whatever had been clinging in the darkness.

“Anything large enough in here to blast a wizard’s head in two?” Snape asked.

“Mate, the whole place could be used that way in the ‘rong hands. Look ‘ere at these tanks. These babies could knock yeh out cold if yeh got a pinch on some ‘n.”

‘What if that pinch was Gonzole. Any sight of him or Zabooni in the past two weeks?” Hermione approach them. “Anything that they borrowed?”

The Australian cleared his throat. “Zabooni? Gonzole? I ‘ave too many visiters comin’ to keep track of ‘em all-“

“-try to.”

The Australian twisted and twisted like the ropes in the back. He mentioned there had been a breech in the security wards the day before the murder of Curt Gonzole. A group of rickity youths, doing some Hooch by the whites. One of the Luminators had gone missed that night, probably because of some nasty little joke they were plieing on him for not letting him rent out the boats for a stag party. They had not been found since and neither had the device. He then had a hearty laugh with Snape and offered him some more Marmites for the journey back.

“I want a coke,” Hermione fumbled with the jacket, now sweating profusely and charmed it to fit in her pocket. “Can we walk to the gas station down the road? I thinks he mentioned one in the area.”

“Haven’t had the Muggle drink since the 70’s. They still put them in those glass bottles?”

“Cans.” Gods, she kept forgetting how old he was. And at the same time, Snape had not aged a day past thirty-something. His own overcoat tucked over his shoulder. She charmed it to the size of a galleon and he snapped it into his blue collared shirt.

“What about the Devil’s business?”

The twisted asphalt winded upwards through the grassy English meadows. Small pickets with metal lined the dangerous curve towards the water and the Marina below. Two silver cars zipped past them as they climbed.

“Had I understood it myself, I would have told you. But Satan is not very clear in his intentions.”

Neither was Snape. Just a week before, they had been on good terms and now the curved explainations and unspeaksn secrets set them back. Perhaps Snape had been right in keeping his distance. He was not her friend and will not become him. He likely found her annoying to a fault and was helping her until she could hand over the memories. But he had been a great help and Hermione would miss his very useful advice when Draco was back.

The gas station had not changed much from her youth. The red and white canopy and little gas plugs smelled like petrol and the cool fridges stocked with colored bottles- a driver’s oasis on a summer’s day. She reached to pay for two, but took it back and counted out the galleons for her own bottle of dark fuzzing sweetness.

No leads at all today. She had stayed up planning all the possible weapons that could have been used by Blake and their own indication of a crime was some smokers in the back of the marina. The keeper could have been to lie, for all she knew the youths could have been Blake and his men. On the way out, she eyed a packet of chocolatines. Her fingers curled the tips of the little bag. One couldn’t hurt, after all, no one cared about her. She and that pack of chocolate- no one would notice if they were gone. But she would know that she’d done something extraordinarily powerful.

The shop keeper stuck his nose into a Sudoku. She reached her fingers down the foil and brought it to the back pocket. That rush of adrenaline filling her veins. Wonderful. The only success she would ever feel in her life. Years of training and studying leading to some flimsy job as a cataloguer when she could have been out there solving real crimes like Harry . Only she wasn’t Harry . She was the mudblood, stealing from some gas station in the middle of nowhere. She wouldn’t do it- she wouldn’t succumb. She had to take back her own power over her life.

She surged as Snape’s hands grasped her and the decision was made. The packet fell to the floor and he with it. The glass windows shattered one by one. She cast a shield to block the shards.

“Let’s go!”

Hermione had to see who was attacking them. Her cover in place, she crept away from Snape and leans again the rack. Wand at the ready and her every breath giving her away. Then the sharp pain of glass stinging every part of her body as she fires back into the air. She made her way to the door, but the figure had disappeared. She stands for anouther moment before apparating back to the base. It took her moments to realize that the demon had not come with. Had he been caught. She flashed back to the red and saw him stumbling out of the building.


	27. The Truth marks the End

“You should have told me!”  
  


Snape threw himself on the armchair, then rose and paced towards the kitchen. She followed suite.

“You had no powers. Gods I knew something was off when you never progressed with the locket. When you couldn’t even summon a simple bulb in the greenhouse. I knew it!”

“You’re so clever, I’m surprised you didn’t corner me before.”  
  


“I thought you were testing me-“

“You wouldn’t have made a deal with NOR would you have listened to me if I’d told the truth-“

“I trusted you. And if years spent together at school didn’t establish it, then I’m not sure what would have. I trusted you were telling the truth. In fact I spent DAYS researching the effects of powers after death, knowing how little literature there was on the matter as well as assuming you had ample time to explore your abilities. I thinks –he must know something I don’t, he couldn’t possibly be to lie”

“Well this is it then. I lied. And you would have been smarter to question me instead of blindly believing or trying to put the facts together in your head. You blame me for assuming the worst in people, but you Gisbon are one in the same. You could have approached-“

“I didn’t think I needed to.” She spat the words out. Then disappearing into the bedroom she holds the locket. Eyes down and her curls standing on the tips of the head, she brought her wand with a figment of glowing blue- like a ribbon out of the key.

“Take all of them. Take them and stay out of my life.”

“No.” He backed away slowly, arms crossed.

“It wasn’t a question. Take them professor and go back to your rotting hole and live your happy afterlife.” When he’d refused the second time she stuck them back into their rightful place.

“The Promise Bond was a lie as well. Not that I didn’t know. It can only be made between living beings. Now that there is nothing holding you here, this is the end of it all.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“Wherever you want.”

Both looks at each other with a certain listless gaze.

“When I come back to Earth, I had no clue what was happening. No bloody clue. The only indication that my life had meaning was this f8888 Fish and Chips shop that I stumbles into one morning. Whatever spirit was there, obviously had a malicious intention. But an intention nonetheless and options that Id never been presendsed with.”

“You could have told me that from the start.”

“Told you? Gods I didn’t even believe it myself. How could I ever expect you to do the same?”

“It would have changed –“

“-It would have changed nothing. I don’t know what Im supposed to do. I’ve always had answers, or someone telling me answers: your Headmaster, the Dark Lord, Lily. But now, I’ve no one to rely on. No one to even f*8888ing ask about my actions and it scares me. It scares me to think that I’ll ever be my own man.”

He couldn’t bear to look her in the eye. Why had he just told her his thinkss. The Priest wanted him to be vulnerable. Was it supposed to hurt this much?

“I wonder the same thing. I know how you feel about me talking about it, but when I think of Harry , I wonder if I’d ever have been considered for a position as an Auror if he’d never brought my application to Robards Jr.. I’d done it by myself?

I’ve applied for an internship with Milicent after the war. I’ve even been published. But I didn’t want to end up like my mother. You know, she’d always wanted to be archeologist but she settled for a stable job and her family. I don’t want to be fourty and working a job everyone expected me to do. Well now I’m 37 and I wonder if I’d just done it for the badge and the glory. Both of which I’ll never receive because I wasn’t the one who defeated the Dark Lord. A plain but ambitious girl, seems to be developing a taste for famous wizards.

How flack is that?”

“I don’t think it is flack at all. Who wrote that?”

“Skeeter.”  
“Skeeter is a ministry rat. She writes what people want to hear and what the Minister tells her.”  
  


She smiled.

“Bond or no bond Hermione, I made a promise to help get you into Robards Jr.’s good graces. And I fully intend to keep my promise.”

“I can’t accept your help. I’m sorry Sev .”

A sudden twist in his gut and a tremble through his hands as she says the final words. He slowly rose from his seat, jacket in hand and leaves the door. He turned to see her following his steps with her eyes. Whatever words come out of his mouth could not change the situation. He leaves her behind the door.

Pip and Frodo yapped and wagged their tails in the downstairs window, but Snape made his way down the street. To say he felt remorse and guilt was to say the least.

For the first time in a very long time, tears stung his eyes and he rapidly waxed them off. Thankfully, the crowded streets of London would soon swallow his misery.


	28. The Winning Hand

Hermione didn’t dwell on Snape for much longer as the stakes of the crime were higher than the pang inside her chest. Devil or no devil, she had everything she needed: a flat of her own, friends, a job that she needed to get back and a case she needed to solve. And she had done well for herself all of these years. Sure Snape’s advice was poignant and very useful. He offered her a perspective she was to keen to overlook. Sure he was rash and judgmental, but he had been a good partner. But to lie was no way to start and she was tired of deception. And she had to admit that she had been right about his ill intentions all along. But it still hurt her to admit she lost him.

Scheduling time to think of it later in the day, perhaps before bed but after her nightly shower, she enters the Casino with Draco and Harry close behind. Draco, despite being against the being on set, agreed to come. Maybe it was the promise of the Casino that he hadn’t visited in years, maybe his conscience suddenly took a a turn to the leaves. Likely the former.

The Hippodrome had a certain gaiety about it. In the afternoon, the glasses in the bar glistened with anticipation of the soon to arrive guests. Serving staff bustled about, their wands charming wine stains and other unaffordable liquids off the exquisite carpets. Hermione let her shoes sink into the rich fibers. It was wonderful to be part of something bigger than herself- she could almost imagine an alternate self waltzing in with hundreds of galleons to her name and winning the jackpot. The image alone put a tad of pep into her step.

Where to look first? She dove for the counter, the books had to have the names of the guests here. And Curt had been visiting the Casino on the night of the murder, so he had to be written there. Or perhaps, she should approach like Snape, ask the waiting staff first. When the casino doors opened in two hours, there would be no time for questioning.

She approached Mr. Lively. Introduce herself as an Auror? No. Snape would never have started that way.

“ Excuse me sir. I had lost my purse in the lobby on April 15th.”

“Certainly MSev . You can come with me to the Lost Items department and have a look.”

“I have already inquired.”

“Then you can fill out a notice and we will return the call as soon as something turns up.”

She leans in close. “Mr. Lively. The matter is very personal. You see, my husband, if he was to find out I lost the purse, would be devastated. The purse holds an anniversary presends- an expensive one.”

“Certainly. We understand and the Hippodrome extends it’s greatest sincere apologies MSev .”

“Please Mr. Lively. My husband is not a gentle man. If he found out – oh he would be devastated.”

After some deliberation, Mr. Lively could not longer bear to look at the tearful expression of the woman before him. He led her to the side, scratching a name and number on a paper.

“Inquire here from Mr. Johnathon Lively at the Hippodrome. He was here that night, I am sure. He always works Thursday evenings. If not, this other address could be worth an owl.”

 _Success!_ She could not wait to uncover the mystery and tell Robards Jr. how proud she was. He would see it. The brilliant Hermione Granger. And promote her straight away to work with Harry . And she would no longer have a to share an office with Draco in the basement. And all of Snape’s techniques applied without him even being presends.


	29. The Pompous Traveller

Just because Hermione refused his help, it did not mean their contract was annulled. As long as he kept his distance from her, Snape could still help Hermione become an Auror. As much as he hated to admit, the collection of scribbles in Hermione’s notebooks and careful plans had proved far more useful than he had imagined. From there, he realized that there had been a connection that linked both the Zabinis to the dead Vincent Crabbe and the casino. That connection had been the Flowerkeeper the Minister had ordered to set up the exhibit of Oasria roses. The week before the murder, Crabbe had been staying in the Grand Hotel and gambling in the casino with the Flowerkeeper. And where there was gambling, there were galleons. Millions of galleons. If Crabbe was murdered, it was out of revenge for winning something too valuable.

Granger had taken careful notes about the suspects. The Flowerkeeper was a kept man, noted by his photograph. He had also owned a collection of rare sculptures that were to be displieed among the roses the night of the opening. Perhaps one of the sculptures had been won by Crabbe and the Flowerkeeper wanted to murder him to retrieve his possession back.

Snape followed the trail of maps leading to the wizard’s apartment and was almost too shocked to discover that the Flowerkeeper was none other than:

Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart.

His old colleague. A tacky collection of curtains and souvenirs littered the tasteless sitting room. Some poppycock he found during his famous travels. The man was a complete doozy- a boastful one at that who ran his mouth more than his wand. Snape puffed as he remembered one wonderful encounter at Lockhart’s duel club where he had knocked the professor out senseless with his crown spell. If he were anything as foolish as before, finding out information of Crabbe would be easier than _Expelliarmus_.

Lockhart was in the shower. Evident by his incessant singing. He emerges wearing a speckled robin robe and leopard slippers. Upon seeing Snape sprawled on his couch, he yelps, searching furiously for his wand.

“Looking for this?” Snape holds up the wood. “Don’t worry, I simply wanted to make sure you didn’t make any rash decisions.”

“How did you get in here?”

“Your agent let me in. Did you forget about our interview for the Quibbler this afternoon?”  
The wizard straightened, brushing his hair back.

“Ah yes, the Quibbler. My adoring fans would like to see my harem where I…find inspiration for my books. Make sure to write about my latest one _Lockhart: Singing in Salem._ ”

Pompous boat. Snape pushed his spectacles down and mimicked writing in one of Hermione’s empty notepads. The wizard went around the room in a most comical fashion, his crown jewels almost peaks from behind the robes as he imitated snatching the snares off the necks of the Salem witches and leading them to freedom.

“Mr Lockhart, our readers will be most fascinated however one wondering fan would like to know what sorts of rare treasures they could expect to see at your latest display at the Queen Mary Rose Gardens?”

“Well of course my inquisitive fans would like to know, but my latest collection is a big secret. I can only say that it will bewitch the eyes and ensnare the senses of their little eyeballs.”  
  


The words were well descriptive and stirred Snape’s ears; maybe only because the words were his very own.

“Well Mr. Lockhart, our readers are…not so sure they will be able to come to the displie as it premieres the same weekend as the Prime Minister’s famous Rose garden display. Now of course, we at the Quibbler would like to paint your event as being more important than some roses. If you could give our readers some eclusive content they could expect to see, then surely-“

“Right right. An excellent marketing scheme. How come I did not think of it myself. Ah right! I did! When I was publishing my first book I did an interview- right, you were asking?”  
“The sculptures.”

“Right!! The sculptures I am displieing are exclusive head carvings of the original Salem witches murderously burned at stake. Of course, had I been alive then, none of this would have happened. However, I am very disappointed to say that my one famous sculpture had been sold to a friend.”

The Flowerkeeper. Of course, now it all made sense. And perhaps Crabbe had been entangled with the plan or had won the sculpture from him and sold it.

“Leaving so soon? How about a cup of tea? Now during my travels to the Jungles of Amazon as I was wiritng my novel _Airdiving in the Amazons,_ I had encountered a plant whose leaves produced the most wonderous drink-“

“I do not want to take up any more of your precious time. Mr. Lockhart. You are afterall busy man.” He glanced at the writing desk in the corner, the ink in the well had all but set in stone from misuse. “But my readers will be itching with desire to read about the Stiches of Salem”

“Witches. And do not forget to mention my newest autobiography releasing next month: Lockhart- the man who defeated the Chamber of Secrets.”

_Obviously._

As he leaves the building, congratulating himself on the simplicity of the mission at the hands of Granger, he was leaves with a sinking feeling inside his chest. One he could not get rid of as easily as the feather boa Lockhart had gifted him upon his departure. One chance to make things right between him and the witch and he had mulled it up as well. Would she ever forgive him?

Deep inside, he knew she would not. Neither in the Afterlife, nor before had he been able to control his nasty temper around the witch. Of course she was insufferable as always and the years gone by had cemented this phenomenal ability to nag and gripe to no end. However she was quite resourceful and had been quite quick to overlook his tempter. But perhaps, it was also the thinks that he would help her secure her job back and not about her affections towards him. Surely this was right.

And really, none of it mattered because she was not at all responsible for his crass tone. It was all him and it had always been him. Rude, crass, snarky, greasy, disgusting. And now also undead and useless to everyone including himself. The sooner he completed his deal, the better. For good reason too. The contract with the Master would end in a week’s time and she would be better off without him.

On the other hand, he knew exactly what he had to do.


	30. The Stand - Up

Snape looks at the Fish and Chips Restaurant standing in front of him, now menacing with its tones. He marches straight in, looking for his Boss. Instead, he finds the Cousin, counting the packets of condiments.

“Where is he?”

  
“I'm not sure who you're talking about.”

Snape glares with a certain fury.

“Oh, it's you! Sorry didn’t recognize you there mate. If you wanted to talk to the Boss, he's gone today.”

“Gone?” He repeats the words silently to himself. He needs to speak with him straight this instant, where could he possibly be?

“Listen, mate, the boss doesn’t like visits without agenda. If you could just leave him a little call.”

“I don’t want to leave a call, I need to speak with him now. In fact, since you're here, you can leave him a message. Tell him that Snape is done playing games and following his wild goose chase. I’m staying here for good and if he wants me, he can hound me and drag me straight to Hell with his bare hands. Because I'm done slaving for him. All be damned. Tell me exactly that.”

With those words, Snape heels towards the door, shaking as if he'd just thrown up.


	31. The Hippogriff Society Charity Ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The knot will soon be tied at all ends. Snape heads for the Hippogriff Society Ball along with Hermione.

Finally, the day of the grand banquet had come. It was the night.

The grandest building in all of London hosted the finest of the fine. To the naked eye of the onlooker, the Buckingham Palace was the most prestigious building in the whole city and home to the Minister and his family. To the eye of someone like Pansy Parkinson, it was a liberation. To Hermione Granger- a trial. To Severus Snape- a destination. To Draco Malfoy, a getaway. To Harry Potter - a battleground. And to Gilderoy Lockheart– a stage. But all the world was to him.

He struts towards his adoring fans only to be met by the unmasking eye of Hermione Granger.

“A signature, my sorceress?” His pen floats beside him, signing off his name on a fresh copy of _Singing in Salem_.

She grabs it, a precious souvenir that gently reminds her of her childish crush on the wizard. His eyes gleaming in a more subtle and subdued away- the boyish charm replaced by fear. She is no longer a young witch- a full-blown Auror.

As she clutches the bound pages, her gaze kept betraying her to every dark-haired stranger whisking someone off on the dancefloor. Their modern regalia seemed to float with them as they danced in tulle layers in the skies. She followed them higher and higher- the couples disappearing up into the rooftop and chatting with the cupids depicted on the ceiling.

The Muggle Prime Minister is on the floor above, hosting his guests on the grounds while the incantations of the floating violas and pianos play underground.

“Hermione-“ Pansy drapes her hands over her neck and hugs her in a familiar way.

“Pansy.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you all evening. You look so…different.”

Hermione felt a wave of passivity from her tone. Her own dress was from her school days- the blue gown with cascading ruffles and a fitted bodice. She had charmed it into a more current fashion- lengthening the tulle and loosening around the hips into a more mature silhouette. The neckline now adorning her shoulders and fitting into sleeves. She wanted to be ready to fight at any given opportunity. Her own wand tucked into a pocket charmed into the leaves bunch of tulle.

“Have you seen your husband- Blaise?”

“Gods- if only I knew. If only I cared.” She stops the waiter guiding a floating tray of champagne, taking one flute in one manicured hand and the entire tray into the other.

Hermione passes the green scales to find Harry and Draco.

“I didn’t think Ginny should come, considering the way the evening could play out.”

  
“Good call. If Astoria. Well, I would have done the same thing.” Draco pauses, the image of his dead wife fresh in his mind.

They give each other a knowing glance. Harry pats him on the shoulder.

“Herms, where’s your daily pick?” Draco asks. “Gods don’t say you’ve come alone?”

“I have.”

Snape was nowhere to be seen and by the looks of it- it would stay this way. She stayed close to the wizards as they exchanged anecdotes from their life. Harry scans the room, uninterested in half of what Draco is saying. Draco sways his shoulders back and keeps trying to catch Hermione’s gaze at his punchlines.

She is also disinterested. Hundreds of faces flow before her, in each she searched for him. Not knowing what she would say if he appeared before her or what she expected. Not admitting it to herself, she had grown rather attached to him. His listless expressions and dry sarcasm. His willingness to follow her around. Him listening to her. If he were here now, she imagined he’d scoff about the number of people in the room and clutch a glass of some pungent drink.

Then they would discuss the number of times it would take the waiters to notice Pansy's constant theft of champagne flutes or laugh at the way Lockheart was flourishing over his fans.

As she thinks of it, her heart glowing warmly. Snape wouldn’t come back- not after she had told him to leave. He was too polite, too English to interfere with her wishes. Unlike some swashbuckling and hotheaded quidditch player, he would think twice before talking to her again.

“Witches and gentle wizards. Your attention please-“

The lights dim and the couples descend and gather around the large stage.

“Welcome to the annual Hippogriff Society Charity Ball. It has been a pleasure to host an upstanding tradition through the centuries in this monumental palace.”

Applause ensues.

“This year, our hosts are as always the Zabinis. Pansy and Blake Zabini are both graduates of the esteemed Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and are veterans of the Wizarding War. Both have contributed colossal efforts and funds to the reestablishment of the wizarding society. We remind you that all proceeds of the ball will be generously donated to this year’s charity of choice **“ _the Protection Society of Enchanting Flora and Fauna.”_**

 _Poppycock beatniks._ The words sound in his sardonic tone in her head. She smiles.

“Now we would like to welcome you to the grand event of the evening. The event you’ve been waiting for. The exhibit of the Osaria roses straight from the Shaman Institute of Madagascar. Though there have been some mishaps,” the Minister began, clearing his throat. “I am pleased to say that the rare collection of busts from Gilderoy Lockheart will be very proudly displayed alongside.”

The doors of the palace gardens open and the sight nearly takes away the breath of a mortal. Long rows of scarlet blooms line the vast expanses of the gardens. The fountains spray streams that formed into tiny water dancers, waltzing round and round. The busts of the Salem witches, in their youthful purity, stand and take deep bows before the guests.

Harry grasps Hermione’s hand in solidarity. She holds back tears and straightened.

“Mistress gardens?”

She nods, sniffling. The two join the crowd, walking side by side among the red. The roses, although she thinks they were red, actually glowed from within with every passing minute. Their colours changing over and over with the dancing of the water fae in the fountain.

“Gin read in _Homemaker Witch_ that the roses had the power to glow in the hand of one who loves.”

He bends down and cups one of the blooms in his hand and it glows a share of burgundy and then aquamarine. Hermione could no longer bear her emotions and let the tears fall straight from her eyes. The dark mascara now likely dripping from her lashes. She was too tired to feel embarrassed. Harry’s arms embrace her and he gives an affectionate squeeze.

“I feel like a complete mess, Harry .”

“You call that a mess? Listen Mione, I know it hasn’t been the same for Ron and I am you since the incident, but I miss him and the way we were every single day.”

“Me too” she agrees. She wishes she’d cherished those moments when they had been there.

“Harry, can I ask?”

“Miss Know-it-all asking?”

“I'm serious. Do you feel like you’re doing what you’re meant to be doing at work? I mean do you ever feel like you should have gone a different path?”

“Sometimes. Truth is, I’ve felt like a complete imposter when I started. I mean I was never the brightest wizard of my age. But then you realize there’s more to life than being an Auror.”

“Like what?”

“Like Ginny, and the kids and the summers at the Burrow.”

  
“And if you’d never become an Auror?”

“Well I...Macgonogall basically bargained her whole reputation on me. I’d rather have died than not become one.”

  
“I remember that.” Her school days bring a gentle turn to her lips.

“Listen Harry, would you believe me if I told you something completely illogical?”

“What have you done with Granger? Right, of course.”

“Snape is a demon."

Harry is confused and shocked.

“I think something terrible must have happened to him. Like he'd made a deal for his Soul."

‘Hermione.”

“Look Harry you’ve been suspicious of me for years since the accident and I don’t fucking know what is wrong with me. But this isn't some bogus theory of mine. Not like a hallucination. I miss my daughter every day, but I would never imagine someone dead coming back to life as a Demon."

Harry does support her, he really tries but Hermione has not been herself and everyone in the office knows it. It was hard to believe the validity of her statements. Between her strange visions and statements along with that fiery attitude, Harry does not know to think her a genius or just mad with grief.

“Mione, you’re my best friend but I can’t really believe you at face evidence.”

“But try for once!”

She pushes herself away and lets go of his hand. She heads into the garden of roses leaving everyone behind. Had she known a month ago that everything in her life would turn out the way it did, she would have not believed it.

Among the beds of roses, her boss Robards Jr. stood among the flowers. He looks towards a large empty spot of sand right in the center. What had he been staring at?

Now the crowd was gathering before the spot rising from the very middle of the gardens. It weaves its way into sight, the roses creeping along with the greek columns on the side and the Minister gently Apparating on the steps of a most magnificent gazebo.

“Sir, you’ll want to know we-“

Robards Jr. glances at her and turns his attention back to the speaker who is now adjusting his rather well-fitted velvet suit jacket at his silky shirt. The little bees sprinkled on the fabric buzz around and around. Hermione finds herself just as entranced by watching their little dances. A quality charm like such was easy to come by for a man in his position.

“Witches and Gentlewizards, it is my honour to present the main attraction of our event, the infamous bust of the Salem witch brought over by our special guest this evening- Mr. Lockheart.”

He beams as the equally charming and well-aged man joins him on the stage, appearing out of the flick of the Minister’s handkerchief wave. Snape would have had much to say about his infamous duel with bugger during her second year. However, Snape was not here and she was reminded that she would not retort his quips any longer. And it makes the little bees’ dance seem a little slower.

And had she been looking, she would have noticed Robards Jr.’s jaw growing tighter as Lockheart pats the Minister on the shoulder and reveals his own wand to strike through the violet ribbon tied to the doors of the gazebo.

One. Two. Three.

He waves his hand in a comical demonstration. When the ribbon had only tightened, he gave a nervous laugh and struck again with more intention. The ribbon is undone, the doors open. And in that midset, Snape.


	32. The Final Boss

Snape is drenched in sweat when he realizes where he is and what he had done. All night, he had been having an intense fever dream.

Now the bells of the church strike six and he is lying among the dusty room on the lived-in couch in the damp heat. The last place he wants to appear is the Hippogriff Society Charity Ball. The ball with Granger, Draco, Harry, the entirety of the crew present, he wishes he'd never promised to come. Every part of his body wants to make an excuse- stay on the old couch, curl up into the cushions in self-loathing. But he knows he will never forgive himself if he does that.

Slowly, he tilts his head. The last rays of sunshine leave a memory trace on the floorboards. The smell of old carpet and the legs of the old cupboards below him. Suddenly the room seems like the most comforting place in the world- one he never wants to leave.

Hermione would not be upset if he stayed. She is more than capable of solving everything herself. If anything, he is more of a hindrance than an aid. However, what is the alternative to helping? Spending his final days lying in the grubby basement of St. Michaels, waiting for the priest to finish his sermon. The sounds of organ music reverberating above. Now his own breathing scraping at his brain, annoying him to no end. He made a promise and he had to keep it.

Perhaps what finally made him rise from his bed and dress was the thought that he would muck it all up again if he didn’t take this one last shot. Success or no success with his mission with Satan, there was Hermione. And it didn’t matter if he needed her or not, he wanted to be there. Why had her opinion mattered?

Dressed in a clean shirt, every step towards the large doors felt like the final Judgement Day. Anxiety and regret like never before overcoming him. Every step he made down the cold street taunts him. The lights of the street lamps would dim and some paper advertisement flew off its post. A couple of bottles crash in the distance crackle.

Finally, up ahead the crowds are more packed and the lights of Buckingham Palace flash ahead. He stands for a minute, considering what he might find there and turns towards the fish shop. It is a way down, but he feels compelled to visit there one last time. Surely all of London had to be at the event as the Minister had called for a national holiday. All of the ‘cousins’ working at the shop would also be there. Then the Boss would have no choice but to take him. Or perhaps, he would open those large doors and there would be no one behind them.

Now the shop looms closer and closer and it seems like he’d gone frigid. Until he finally notices he’d been shivering for a while and he holds his arms close to his chest before realizing for wimpy it makes him look.

The first scents of the building reach him, now rotting and disgusting. He wants to hurl. The shop is dark, not a single soul in sight, but he can’t be certain. And he can’t think of anything but the disgusting smell of fish like he’d been gutted himself and now reeking. The outline of the counter up ahead. Thin and white and crystal-clean. Too clean. His own shadow is now before him on the floor and its head touching the tip of the table where the little girl once sat. The little girl who'd stared at him in horror.

He’d half expected something grotesque as he made his way through the shop. He’d of course seen many horrors, but no amount of murder sensitized him to the sight. The linoleum tiles now giving a sticky scent. And he’d almost slipped as he took his first steps, grabbing a chair to balance himself.

“Evening,” he calls into the black, his head tracing the dancing shadows. But the shadows stood behind the scenes and not a single sound from a carriage or Muggle car behind him.

With hard footsteps on the jolly tiles, he passes the counter and registers into the backroom. Two tinted windows made of glass give a glimpse into what lies beneath. More than ever he wishes he had his wand with him, or some form of protection (though he knows the Evil behind would not succumb). He snatches a spreading knife from the condiment jars, a dull substitute for his sturdy darkened wand. His hand hovers the door, much like Hermione would have been trained to do on one of her sessions. Or that he would have trained her to do. The door, to his surprise, is chilled. Then he yanks his touch away and realizes his fingers are burnt. His fingers- burnt. First the blood on his back, then his senses revived, then his weight returning and now his fingers pricked at the touch. He shoves the door with his foot and glimpses what is inside.

Nothing.

It would be safe to enter. Heart pounding subsided, he pushes the door with his foot again and his head feets the granite counter behind him. It seems like two eyes were glaring right at him. Eyes from the darkness that hadn’t been there before. Shit. What was he so afraid of? Years of practice lost had made him weak. In fact, he is completely at one with the floor, like he was committed to it. One more deep breath and he pushes through the door, but not without leaving his knife on the counter. It would not protect him, and if he should be killed now, it would be without looking an ill-equipped wuss.

Three steps in and nobody glares back at him. He’d imagined it. His breath hisses through his teeth and he looks to the left when a flash at the corner of his eye causes him to whip back. Nothing again. He looks forwards and is met with absolute horror and flesh. Enough to cause him to stumble down into the floor for real.

“Well, Snape!”

A shift in the darkness means the figure is moving towards him. He gauges how large it is from the steps, but they are light as a feather. The eyes float much higher in the air and it was unusual that the touch of its foot was so soft. Snape wondered if his death would be quick or drawn out of him with fangs like before. But the figure taunts him with its absence.

“I’ve come,” he replies. His shoulders betray him, huddled close to his neck. The spot where he’d been poisoned by the fangs of his previous Master’s serpent.

“So I see. You’ve grown dull of the festivities already?”

Snape backs away as he rises to his feet. There are no fangs at his neck nor a strike against him. If the Boss wanted him gone, he would have already done so, unless Crooks was correct and death wasn’t his final goal. Either way, he meets the opposition standing.

“What do you want with me?”

“You have something to offer?” the voice replies. It ripples along the walls as if they were standing inside a gourd. Each plosive flicking Snape’s ears and sending a nip through their hollow shells.

“No.” It was the truth.

“You’re the Dark Underlord?”

The sound of lips opening into a grin came from the Boss. “Flattering. A man of your intelligence can’t possibly believe such a character would have time for simple conversation?”

“Answer me straight.”

“But you are bold. I could take you right now, you know?”

“You haven’t…yet.”

“Let me ask you a question. Would you prefer to be taken straight away to his presence or slowly: piece by piece. Like a little morsel?”

Snape hears the sound of slurping which he can only assume is one of the vile-smelling fish creations slipping down his throat. Then, as if it was smacking its fingers of the aftertaste. Finger by finger. If it had fingers at all.

“Show yourself,” Snape asked, again weighing whether he’d actually want his request to be granted. No longer feeling fear, he felt annoyed. Annoyed he had come. The character before him was very clearly not the Boss, but some pathetic impersonator who was trying to taunt him and waste his time. In fact, he would not be surprised if this was one of the Cousins dressed up and playing a simple trick on him.

“I’ve enjoyed you, Snape. Why don’t you run along back to the Minister’s gala, and have a ball? Enjoy your final night.”

Snape backs to the doors and opens them wide, letting the moonlight reveal his partner. The light reflects off the steel rods and plays among the pots and pans on the ceiling. But just as easily as it appeared, the stranger disappeared. On the counter, a fish head suckled dry to the bone winked at him.

“Just tell me what you want? What is all of this for? Answer me!”

Snape knocks the condiment jars on the floor and is surprised they contain exactly that: mustard and vinegar. He rings open the register and finds a few spare galleons inside. The whole place is completely normal. Like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened to him. And it causes him great rage. He thuds the register into the wet mixture on the floor. An array of menus with jolly children nibbling at chips joins the recipe.

The reverberation echoes from the posters on the walls.

“If you’re set on scaring away my customers, might I suggest doing so with magic,” says a lady in a 50’s dress with a bucket of fish sticks in her hands. Her plastic smile curved into a C.

“There are no customers.” He flips a chair across the floor.

“No magic. No Combos.” With each accusation, another item flies across the room. The lady with the curved smiles divides in half as he claws the posters.

“And no Satan.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be sure of it.” Now the voice comes out of the chef painting into the front doors of the building. He throws them open and is blinded by the light and splashes of red.


	33. The Attack of Crimson Roses

“Snape?”

The words come from Draco’s mouth as he shoots a _protego_ before him. Hermione, Harry and the nearby Auror guards barely have time to stand up their owns shield from the incoming shards as the door shatters.

Even if his likeliness was hard to notice for the furthest rows of wizards, Snape’s canonical stance would complete the image to those who remembered him. Shoulders loose, but his hands snapping into striking position. He pauses, realizes where he is and who is before him. Hair whipping from his cheeks as he bites the following incantation. And in a flash moment, Gilderoy Lockheart is flipped upside down by his trousers and hung off the lamppost. Robards Jr.’s lips curve into a smile.

Now aware that Hermione was staring straight at him, he relaxes his shoulders and brushes the loose locks from his head and some bit of yellow off his pant leg. _Slob._ Hermione smiles.

Now Robards Jr. is muttering something while the crowd dissipates. Snape stands very still, but it looks as though he’d rather sink through the floorboards than face the number of eyes glaring at him.

“How come the wards didn't signal him?” Harry asks.

“If he were alive, they would,” Hermione replies. “But Snape is a different sort of alive.”

Now approaching the scene, Hermione notices Harry‘s eyes darting. Presumably not knowing where his loyalties lie: with his employer who was now aiming his wand straight at Snape, or with Snape- the man who (unbeknownst at the time) protected him through his school years. Though Harry always made his decisions on his feet at the opportune times.

“Sir.” Robards Jr. turns to see that Hermione had not stood alongside him as did Harry. Her body faces him, but her back turns to the intruder. She blocks his strike. “You can’t Hex him without explanation.”

Robards Jr. struck again and again his spell deflected by the mass of curls. “You know who he is.”

“Get out of my way Granger. I know very well that his supposed devotion to the Headmaster does not exempt him from his crimes under the hand of the Dark Lord. If Snape really is who he says he is. I’ve suspected it for quite some time now.”

Now it all made sense. Only she could see Snape because the memories in her locket were mixed with his own. Why Draco had been so evasive? He didn;t recognize him. Now that he did, Draco had given him the information needed to identify Snape. All for his promotion. She would not forgive him so easily, if they'd made it through the day at all.

And to attack Snape? Four against two as Martin from the Ministry and Draco are now close behind.

Her back still to Snape, she feels her way up the steps and is surprised to see the spells behind deflected from above. Snape – wandless and wordless was still the master of silent incantation. Though clearly, he had lost a great deal of practice as his shields would occasionally break and he would stumble backwards.

Harry looks at Hermione, his aim clearly missing Snape by quite a notch. And she could feel that Draco was not trying hard to knock their winds out. Only Robards Jr., furiously striking alongside Martin and another group of Aurors who had joined from the back.

“You needn’t show off so much,” Snape says as he trips backwards, knocking the Minister’s stand into the columns behind. “You’re giving them a hell of a time already.”

“Just covering…for you…” She bites her lip as Robards Jr.’s attack bounces from her shield. “On your left.”

“You forget who they’re fighting witch.” Snape’s years of lawless fighting would not be erased from instinct. With each hit, he seems more sure of his steps, the art of combat returning to him.

“Just make sure they know that.”

Snape back around a column. Waiting for a few moments. Hermione is left one with a group of Aurors, most of whom would rather not fight against one of their own. Then Snape whips out and knocks the entirety of the front three rows of guests and Aurors off their feet. The hit is draining and he sinks back down with a groan.

“Stand here,” he commands, lying on the floor. He reaches his hand forward to hers, the cool metal in the middle of both. The Locket.

“This will hurt.”

He crushes it with the force of his enchantment. The metal screams as crimson blood reeks through their fingers and onto the floor. The last thing Hermione sees are the red roses before it all fades to black.


	34. The Farewell

The market lies before them. The roses turn to papayas, apples and tropical fruits. And Hermione releases Snape’s hand only to cry out in pain as the shards of met dig deep into her fingers. As soon as she relaxes, her palms do not hurt a single bit despite bleeding red.

“That’s all?” she asks.

“It will be more painful when you awaken.”

“I meant the memories. You broke them from the pendant?”

Snape holds the piece up, the core still intact despite the cracks. “I thought it might work with both of our powers together. But there’s still one more way to try.”

He takes long strides towards the marketplace. She stays put.

“Where am I going to awaken this time?” she calls out, remembering how months before she'd nearly drowned from her sleepwalking.

“A safe place.”

“And with whom.” The question directed at Snape. He looks straight to her, stiff and unwilling to move, unwilling to show how frightened she is.

“With me. Surely there’s no way for you to become an Auror if you don’t make it back alive.”

“What about you Snape?” She approaches, hands wrapped upon herself like she’s trying to keep herself together. The red wetness staining her brown jacket. Now her eyes have matched those red stains both in colour and feel.

“I have no interest in becoming an Auror-“

He knows what she means, but it would be more painful for him to die on her after confessing his feelings. He rubs his thumb over the cut, picking off the pieces and tosses them to the ground. Then he conjures the wound shut with a bandage.

“You could say I’m rather experienced at dying. Probably the one talent I hope you never master before me.”

He smirks, but it doesn’t give a smile to her face. She digs her face into his shirt, fists digging into the back. And she sobs. Quietly but the sound and her shaking fists reverberate through his back.

He thinks it's best to hug her back, at least to get her off him. As soon as his hands meet around her back, he decides it would have been better to peel her away earlier. Her hair smells exactly as her home, that comforting smell that he hopes he will remember in the Afterlife. He brings it up to his cheek and closes his eyes as he inhales the smell. He does not want to leave.

He had considered what would happen if he ignores the Boss and does not return the memories. Now he knows the man was a sham, much like the rest of his enterprise and Snape feels immense anger for wasting his time following his empty threats. He trails down Hermione’s shoulders, setting her aside. He considers apologizing for hugging her but she does not appear to need an apology. Thankfully he does not regret his decision either.

“How did the Gala pass?”

“You mean, did Robards Jr. completely overreact over his roses?”

He laughs. “Did I not bet on it?”

“And you were right, as usual.”

“There’s no need to be a pet, Hermione. I won’t be giving you any House Points for spreading the honey over the figs. Speaking of figs, I doubt there is a way back unless we cross through the Market. The memories have obviously weaved themselves into a rather intricate world.”

Her sight drops forwards. Of course, they’ve both been in a strange illusion before, but they both did not know what would happen in the end.

Snape decides it would be best to hold her hand. She can walk through by herself, she had done it many times alone in her sleep. He, however, feels like it will be the last time he ever does. Her hand is rather strong and now also clammy and cool. He laces her fingers through hers and they head towards the walked path.

As they do, Hermione hears a peeling sound behind her.

“Don’t look back, whatever happens,” he warns her.

Behind her, it sounds like the threads of the world, like whisps of ribbon and lacing out of a boot. She imagines their colour blue like the threads of memories inside the locket and the sight is probably beautiful.

Now they approach the market stands. The bedlams beckoning her with their fruits. She refuses and their faces turn as sour as the rotten fruits inside their palms.

“Beware little Hermione, beware,” they utter.

Their hands tightly intertwined, she looks away from their eyes into the distance, heeding Snape’s warning. She knows what will come next, the rows of houses, on and on in their sandy orange tones like the lost city of Vesuvius. All covered in volcanic dust. She inhales the heat and dust and it stings her throat. On they walk until she remembers who lives just two blocks down.

No it is just a dream. The red-haired girl is not there. She cannot be, for she is just an illusion. But Hermione knows she cannot leave her. She tugs on Snape’s palm.

“We need to get Lily.” He gives her a look that confirms her fears, but she isn’t ready to accept refusal. The closer they walk towards the bend, the more her hands clam and her chest twists and her stomach turns. Her neck tenses at the very realization of what could happen. It won’t happen again. Not again. Not this time.

Now the bend is approaching. He grabs Snape’s hand, dragging him towards the road.

“We can’t, you can’t-“

“Snape please, please. I know this is insane, I know it! But I need to go and get her. I need to and-“ she releases his hand. “And if you don’t come with me I will go alone. But please come.”

Her plea, her tears, the tears of the woman before him whom he loves so much pierce into his very heart and he cannot refuse the request. He opens his mouth to tell her she is imagining it, but nothing comes. And though he’d never had a child of his own, he is willing to believe the pain is real. The pain of losing one’s daughter. Knowing she will never return back home. Knowing she is dead. But also knowing that as insane as it seems, she truly believes Lily is that same girl.

He follows her, hand releasing from her own. And she runs ahead. In that rush, like she wanted to make it this time. And he follows swiftly. Two figures through the crumbling sand.

There on the hilltop, the little cottage appears.


	35. The Rightly-Saved Wrong Girl

The blue clouds cover the skies of Corksworth as though they don’t believe the world is tumbling down around it. Only with each step, the doom follows them forwards. Forth and forth, the house comes closer into view. From the tips of the upper floor, the tiles peel down, shingle by shingle. The vines untangle and wilt from the tops of the whitewashed walls.

Snape and Hermione are running. Now every second is worth a whole moment in time. Every step could be the last. They run as the world crumbles down before them.

The cottage doors are still closed. An illusion. A true illusion, but so real and tangible. Both can feel how real it is. And it is. Nothing about the home seems fake, starting from the squared hedges surrounding it to the white fence now glowering a shade of blue from the sunlight to the panelled windows where the face of a girl blinks in the dark.

She leans closer, probably thinking it is her mother and father here. That gleeful smile on her face, but one of disbelief as well. And Snape grabs Hermione’s hand.

“It isn’t her.”

Three words hold so much unheard meaning.

“It’s Lily, it's your Lily, you remember?” And the look on Snape’s face, one of strain showed he did not. He could not remember the woman he had loved, whom he befriended most 50 years before. And if he could not remember the woman he left his life for, who could argue with him.

“But then…it's Rose?”

He didn’t listen, but she already understood. The little girl she had lost eight years prior was not Lily, it was her own daughter. And Severus was running towards the doorsteps, forgetting it wasn't her. Or perhaps it didn’t matter. He banged on the door with such vigour, she disappeared from the window with a scream.

“You’re scaring her! She doesn’t know who you are.”

“She will die if we don’t take her. Convince her!”

“Lily, Lily…Rose….please open the door my girl. We are here.”

Behind the door, no sound came. Hermione opened the little mailslot.

“Lily please, please we need to leave. I will buy you those lollies Mrs. Hestings gives you for watering her flowers. Just please come with us. Please.”

A small voice whimpered from behind the door.

“The house isn’t going to make it, we need to leave now Hermione.”

“No, give me a few more moments. Lily…I know you’re scared. And I wish your parents were here, but we might find them if you come. Is it about Petty? Sev ?”

The door was locked but she quickly charms it open. The girl hid under the table of the dining room. Wallpaper was peeling around and the blue flowers fell on the ground. The shelves shook a terrible wave and the books splattered open on the floor with a thud.

She approaches the girl, her hand extended and she is too still to move. She looks into the blue eyes. Blue like her daughter's would have been. And she reaches forwards and firmly grasps the little freckled hand. The girl screams as a vase breaks in the distance. One quick yank and the girl is following her out towards the door.

Snape stands before them, hands shaking as he stops another cupboard from crushing the two. And in two steps, the horrible thud covers the floor.

“Harry, HARRY !” she screams, yanking away from Hermione, but she holds her too firmly. Now Snape has the girl’s other hand. He lifts her by the waist and drapes her over the shoulder, running through the blades of grass.

“Im so sorry Lily.”

“HARRY , HARRY ..” she screams. Her face now red with rage as her toad is nowhere in sight. Probably crushed in the rubble.

“Harry ….Harry ….”

Her screams are heard long after the cottage crumbles down to the ground. She kicks Snape furiously, he winces at the pain in his stomach from the powerful heels. Her hands grab the locks of black hair and pull them from the head as she yells the name of her toad. The tears stream down her freckled cheeks and her rosy eyes. She clings onto his back, biting the edge of his shirt and he winces but doesn’t scold her.

They run through the grass which wrinkles at their passing. The skies begin to grey and darken and now are sh-like orange. They run back to the market. The bedlams are now melting. Physically melting into puddles of rotting fruits. Their eyes like seeds tears down their faces.

“Beware little Hermione, Beware” they warm as their own fleshy hands grow as strands of papaya do.

They flesh out and rip in pinkish threads from the bone and drip to the floor. Now the slices of fresh fruit in their hands don’t seem so appetizing. They screech in pain as their mouths emit a sour smell like they have eaten nothing but sugar all their life. They cough and cough up phlegm and she realizes it is juice. The sights nauseate her and she runs forward. Snape still holds the girl in his arms, her eyes open and glaring at the sight before her.

“Don’t look. Close your eyes.” He smashes her head into his shoulder, enough to shield her eyes. But she has already seen much. They continue running as the world melts behind them. Hermione doesn’t dare look back at the bedlams’ fate. She only pushes out the sounds of their screaming.

Off they run into the depths of the stalls, the orange paths beneath their feet. And Hermione turns her head to Snape as he walks with the little girl clasped tight in his embrace. His lanky arms now tensed with much strength. Her saviour. He grasps her safely, and the choirs with a single woman sing her song as he mounts up the hill towards the temple. Focused as he was. She had never seen him quite so focused. And at that moment, there is no one else she’d rather have at her arm, with her babe in his hand. With her Rose, And it didn’t matter if she was her daughter. He saved her. He saved her and now he carried her forth like the coming of the Lord to that temple before him.

The white walls ahead flashed in the light of the setting sun. Their ridges lining up towards the sky and meeting in curled columns. They mounted and ran through its path. As she ran, she noticed the figures of the Saints glaring down at her from the ceiling.

“Beware little Hermione, Beware.”

Their mouths curl in horror as their eyes melted from their sockets. And she could not look away although Snape grabs her other hand and drags her past. Now their limbs seemed to falter to the floors as their reached the other end. The beach ahead.

The sands lay in a carpet before them. It shuffles beneath their feet as they run to the shore. Now they are at that very place and Hermione grits her teeth. That very place. Now it all seems clear.

It's as if her father is resting on that little lawn chair up ahead and she runs into the sea. She is but six years old, diving into the salty waves. And her father rests on the shore. His skin already very dark, but he continues sitting beneath every nearing cloud. And as she comes closer, she anticipates he is there. And there he sits.

She is frightened and grabs Snape’s spare hand.

“I won’t.” She looks at her father then back at Snape. “I won’t go.”

Snape stands tall, the girl now gripping his neck. His breath slowing from the running, but not letting her to the ground. She clings to him and when he tries to lower her, she whimpers and her raises her back up. She knows she needs to swim the length, until the other shore. But she cannot bring herself to do it. And the columns crumble behind her. Strip by strip.

He walks with her to the shoreline. Every step feels deep inside her chest. The sand softly whispers beneath her feet.

“Beware little Hermione, Beware.”

She furrows her brows at the distance. It appears so far from reach. But the only way back home. Snape’s locks intertwine with the girl’s as the breeze caresses its final goodbye. A Pang in Hermione’s chest reminds her it is also her own.

At the edge of the lake, a small rowboat. Enough room for three. Three spots in the wooden carcass. He seats the little girl inside. She clings to him and he whispers something in her ear as she nods her head. He plants a gentle kiss on her head and slowly takes her arms off his neck. The violins in the distance wince. The trumpets blow. The blue eyes flush with the depths.

“Severus.” The one words beckoning him to stay. He backs her into the boat, still holding her shoulders. She repeats his name quieter and the tears form in her eyes. A small pair of hands grasp her leg.

He trails his hands down to her elbows, guiding them with his fingers. His lashes touch her cheek.

“Sev.”

They grasp her tight and pull her close. The warmth of his breath melding into her own. And the tones trickle higher and higher and the waves beat against the edges of the wood. And the soft pillows, she pulls them in as her arms grip his for the last time.

“Look forward, Hermione.”

And they continue kissing as he seats her into the boat, the girl now holding her neck. He kisses her lips, her cheek, her neck, and the place her hairline meets the lobe of her ear. His breath staggered. He pushes the boat forward. The water creeping up his pant leg. He kisses her until it reaches his waist and he can no longer feel the deep end.

“Take care of Rose.”

She mouths his name through her lips. Silently, like a prayer. He turns the boat and pushes it into the distance. And she cups her hand over her mouth, the other over the girl’s eyes. And her father fades from sight. And so does Snape. She shuts her eyes. The sting of the salty tears and the air muffle her gasped breaths. She pulls in the redhead.

The metal cracks behind her. Unravelling slowly. She casts a silent protection spell and they sail through the grey into the Unknown.


	36. The Destination

She does not know how long their sail, but the beating heart of the girl is flushed against her own. She whimpered at first but now had closed her eyes and is softly snowing at her chest.

Her Rose all along. She runs her fingers down her hair. The same course texture at Ron’s. And it brings tears to her eyes again. He’d never seen her, never tried to find her all of these eight years. And the only man who’d ever cared enough had cast away the peeling strips of blue in the distant past.

It was funny the way life worked. She’d only known Snape for three months. Three months. Ron, she’d known for nearly twenty-eight. And yet the wizard who had grasped her hand, who had walked the depths of the crumbling world, the one who had given his life was now far behind them. And just like that, she’d never see him again. She was not sure if what she felt was grief or gratitude, but likely a mixture of both. Regardless she sobbed quietly so the girl would not wake up.

The warm kiss still lingering on her lips. It felt colder without it and she wished he had not kissed her at all. Now she was shivering in the salty breeze, her throat shaking from the tears. She would never see him again. And she could take back all of her words, listen to all of his sarcastic quips, buy him every known sweet in the world had she known he would be waiting for them on the other shore.

Sometime later, the shore began to show through the distance. She had never come this far through the depths of the dream. She had imagined something grandiose. Like the final coming, the last triumph.

The boat rustled as its bottom grazes the wet sands. She gives the girl a vigorous rub awakening her. They step from the boat. Her hand grasping the freckles. As she walks forward, the waves drain away, the sand fizzles off. The heels of her feet feel emptiness like the footsteps fade into nothing. She continues looking forward, her steps more vigorous.

Now ahead are muted leaves. She’d never been here before. Now she sees they are rose bushes. Sharp thorns grip her hands and she pulls them away from her daughter's face. It doesn’t matter how many scratches are on her own. Her sleeve now wrapped on the knuckle as it shields her face. She casts her spell and the thorns peel away ever so slowly.

On the other end, a deep clearing. An older woman rocks back and forth. In her hands, a navy fabric. As they approach, the fabric had velvet buttons clasped to the sleeve. It looked worn, but the woman carefully sews it together, button to the weaves.

“Grandmother?” she whispers.

The woman looks up. She notices her eyes are the same piercing dark as Sev’s and that same crooked nose. She smiles.

“You’ve finally come home.”

The girl releases Hermione’s grasp and runs into the old woman’s arms. She kisses the child’s cheek and then beckons Hermione closer. The woman, she'd never met her before but she appears so familiar. A small cross hangs from her neck. She smells of lavender as Hermione buries her nose into the fabric of the velvet navy shirt. Where had she seen it before? She thinks of Snape one last time and realizes she has no more tears to cry. Only a dryness at the back of her throat that won’t leave her alone.

And when she opens her eyes, she is lying on the floor of a large wooden church. It smells of apple strudel and candle wax. And high above, the church bells ring once. And her hand grips a little warm one. The head of red hair fast asleep on the sofa. And Hermione watches her until she too falls asleep.

Up on the windowsill, the soft patter of cat feet tiptoe along the shutters and down off the ledge into the black. The body hits the floor with a thud and its neck breaks.


	37. The Deal with A Devil

The Gates of Hell open quietly, for they are well greased and many a sinner has walked through them in the past hour. But none of those sinners had four softs legs. They patter down the scalding walkway, the pink pads not burning as they thread quite lightly over the coal hot asphalt.

Pit-pat. Pit-pat.

He whistles _Guantanamera, Guajira Guantanamera._ A funny little Cuban quip and tilts his head side to side as he purrs the lyrics through his nose. He thinks of himself as the best singer in the world. Well in Hell at least, and who can stop him from that little pleasure. He was all about his little pleasures.

The steps ascend upwards towards the throne room. He pitter-patters up them humming his little song as burning hands try to grasp his feet. But the burning flesh cannot crimp his style now. He tosses his step over each finger in his way.

Now up above, the large doors open as he utters his name.

_Alexsander._

Inside the throne room, in a throne of leather sits the High Overlord. He startles forwards when Alexsander approaches waving the deadly choir to stop their incantations and they dissolve into flames.

“You've decided to give up one of your nine lives for me?” He taps impatiently.

Alexsander cocks his head and gestures a motion to his lips. The Overlord sighs, a cigar appearing in his grasp. A good one too! **Romeo y Julieta** , his very favourite. He waits for the tip to light and takes a blissful drag, the smoke nearly burning off his whiskers.

“It’s been many years since you’ve visited, you scoundrel.”

But Alexsander hardly has time for apologies. He continues pulling at the cigar until it's halfway done before gripping it with his canines and bouncing into the Overlord’s lap.

“I’ve come asking a favour, not for myself.”

Now the figure blasts in anger. “Twenty years Alexsander, and you dare come to me asking favours. You are not only a scoundrel, but a shameless one at that.”

“True,” he purrs, “But would a shameless scoundrel give up his seventh life to come down to Hell?”

“Then you want something from me?”

“That I do.” His eyes glisten in the flames. The Overlord refuses.

“One measly little soul…unnoticeable….murrr…you have so many….”

The Overlord cannot believe the audacity of Alexsander. His red hairs gleaming as the flames of his own castle. And his eyes glowing quite bright and quite shamelessly.

“And besides, you owe me one my Overlord.”

“Remind me.”

“Well, have I not entertained you but fifty years ago? Remember Him-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Well you must have forgotten, but fifty years ago he was the object of your greatest amusement. Who had whispered the prophecy to that mild witch Trelawney? Who had pitted the greatest wizard Tom Riddle against a mere boy?”

“You.” The Overlord grumbles.

“Rrright. And did you not laugh at the hilarity of Riddle trying for almost fifteen years to corner the boy during his academic years to destroy him. Oh you did. You were sitting right here, laughing so hard the Dead Souls below swirled around in the melting pots faster than ever. Come, you’ve really enjoyed yourself.”

“What is his name?”

“Severus Snape.”

“Only Snape?”

“Exactly Snape…my Overlord. Just one useless little wizard.”

“Fine.” The Overlord snaps his fingers and the Soul floats into sight. Alexsander grasps it in his teeth. The Soul gently swirls around. Around his pink tongue.

The Overlord hopes Alexsander will visit sooner, but he should know better. Cats come and go as they please and Alexsander Crookshanks disappears into the distance.


	38. The Idyllic Life for a Demon

The waves splash to and fro on the beach as Snape approaches the cottage. Crookshanks walking along his leg.

“You are sure about it?”

“No, but you can ask.”

Snape pushes open the door, breathing deeply. The familiar living room opening before him. Nagyi’s room. He circles the floor, the same teacups dusty and on the shelf. The knitting aside on the couch. Icons of Saints follow him as he finds his old bedroom. The bed is still made but now smelling rather ratty. And the walls rather ratty. And the ceiling leaking. But nothing that he cannot fix. Now he turns to talk to Crooks, but the cat is gone. How had he followed him here?

He hardly remembered. But he did remember Hermione. That final kiss, that final gaze into her eyes. It was best she didn’t see him again. That she knew he was gone forever. Dead.

He runs to the kitchen taking a knife and slicing his finger. Crimson blood pours out. And he smiles. He is truly alive.

The following week, he walks back to the village to gather supplies and everyone greets him. Tobias Snape. A striking image of his father. Tobias Snape, the missing son has returned back home. He reminds them his name is Severus. Severus Snape. Son of Eileen and Tobias. Half Wizard, Half Man.

And Nagyi Piroska is nowhere to be seen. He comes to the church inquiring and they show him her grave. Now covered in cobwebs and dirt. He leans over and picks off the dirt and strewn bits of grass around it. He waters the flowers, and plants a row of carnations, her favourite. He polishes the tombstone with a cloth and traces every engraved letter of her name. Beside hers, Tobias Snape. His grave he cleans as well but not as thoroughly. His mothers had been moved to a new cemetery. Nagyi had never approved of the witch’s body being buried on Holy grounds.

\--

The Village is small. But there is a bookstore and antiques. The first thing he does is buy the Muggle classics. He clears off a shelf at home, setting the novels on it. He dusts off the cushions on the sofa, washes the floors, polishes a teacup and brews a fresh pot of Earl Grey. He nestles himself on the sofa, book in hand. He opens it to the first page and reads.

Then realizing he needs tea, he runs to the kitchen and pours himself a cup, setting it by the side table. Now he realizes he needs more light. He flicks on the little lamp and settles back in with the book. Then he realizes his clothing isn’t very comfortable. He roots through the closets and finds a more comfortable pair of pants and sweat. He cracks open the window, letting in the salty breeze. He sits down, tea in hand and book opens to the first page.

He begins.

But as the words follow through, he cannot remember a single one. And the house seems to quiet without the purring of the cat or the ticking of the clock or the knitting of needles. And then he realizes he misses the sounds of Hermione’s nags. And the way she stocks her cupboards with those digestive biscuits he likes. And the way she makes him those little books with the notes.

And he realizes that it isn’t the tea or the book. Nor is it the clothing or the sofa or the gleaming of the floors that is bothering him. And it all seems quite meaningless without her by his side. He sets the perfectly made tea aside and packs a bag and apparates to London.


	39. The Happy Ending

The flat is rather quiet. Mrs. Diggory comes up occasionally to dust the doorstep. And one day, she nearly tumbled down the steps when out of the door came a blue-eyed little tidbit with the reddest hair and the widest smile.

“Hello, Nanny!”

She grasps the railing tightly and gapes her mouth. This wasn't in the rental agreement. Only one for the flat. Pip and Frodo the hounds pop up and the little girl is now scratching them behind the ears. The doors open again and Hermione steps out in a brown trench. Now there are two in the flat.

“What on Earth and Hell Below,” she mutters. Hermione adjusts the knapsack on the girl and gives her a kiss before scratching Pip’s ear.

“Mrs. Diggory, I’m happy you’re out. I was hoping we could rearrange the rental agreement to include two.”

  
“Well certainly, if you can enchant the room. But a forewarning would have been appreciated. This is your..”

“Lily-Rose.” The girl pops down the steps and hands Mrs. Diggory a small box of Butter-biscuits and a jar of MilkBones for the pups. “And there are more of those to come.”

Mrs. Diggory cannot refuse such a generous gift, especially from a newly appointed Auror. Hermione’s badge grows brighter than her face. The dark fabric, characteristic of the Auror department and a polished badge replaces the brown capes she dons.

And as Hermione leads the girl to school, not even the dark cape can mask the skies. Nothing has changed,

The streets still bustle with men and wizards bustling to work. The clock now strikes seven in the morning correctly. The gentlewizard descending from the bus flicks his cigar only once and it lights with a flip. He takes a deep drag and carries on to work. The smell of fish no longer bothering him. The copy of the Daily Prophet has no mention of the Roses or the Minister, it had been almost two weeks and now a photo of some prisoner grazes the headpage with the title:

**Have you seen him?**

Hermione is sure to find out if she had when she will enter Robards Jr.’s office. She hadn’t arrived late all week and she is sure they will promptly start the Auror meeting without her. She walks hand in hand with Lily-Rose towards her school.

“You will make friends soon enough,” she says as she watches the youngsters playing in the yard. But Lily-Rose waves to a boy up ahead and calls out his name. He sees her and grins and grips the fence, sticking out his tongue. His mother yanks him away and scolds him. Lily-Rose has enjoyed it. Perhaps her girl already had found her place. It was time Hermione found her own.

She gives her a kiss and pushes her off towards the yard. She skips off. Now she is standing in line with the rest of the kids and the little boy is pulling her braids. She turns to him and his hair fizzles up in a droplet above his head and he grasps at it with shock. Then the rascal waves back to Hermione jumping up and down before her instructor pulls her inside.

Hermione waits until every last student goes behind the closed doors. The cape wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She wonders if Lily is the only girl without a father, though it isn’t so uncommon after the war. He holds her hand to her cheek to stop a tear from falling. Back to business as usual.

She heads down the street. And as before, she turns at the sight of every wizard with dark hair. Or a stern gaze. Or strange clothes. She does not know why she’d expect him to show up. And if he did, she would never recognize him. A devil would never come back the same way as it had before.

She’s nearly knocked to the ground by an insolent stranger. Much so that her briefcase spills to the floor. She bends down and whips them back in, careful not to use the same enchantments. She would not want the mortal to see her. She looks up and the man’s brown hair flashes forward and he grins. She thanks him for his help and walks forwards towards the Ministry Entrance. The man disappears into the crowd. Not him.

She takes one final breath of fresh air, one final look in the distance before vowing to head inside. A most incredible journey, a most incredible day. Now even the sun had come out and sparkled off the bells of St. Micheals Cathedral. It was a minute to eight and the bells rang exactly eight times.

She gripped her case tighter. It was all she'd ever wanted. One more chance to prove herself worthy of the badge. And now it glistened in the morning light.

She did not notice, but in the crowd, a shadow walked forward. And the bells warned her. They sang seven times.

She thought it odd. Had they not fixed the clocks since Snape disappeared again?

He approached closer and the bells rang six times.

_Very annoying and unfortunate._

Five rings. Dong Dong Dong Dong Dong.

She had the feeling she was being watched, she glances around.

Dong Dong Ding Dong.

She spotted someone coming out of the crowd. Someone with dark hair and red from his chest.

Dong Ding Dong.

The face now closer and she could see the outline more clearly. Her throat tightens. His chin, his nose, that hairline.

Ding Dong.

And the dark eyes. She steps forward to look closer into them. Down and down the steps.

Ding.

And now he looked rather hopeless, some faded rose in his hand and his smile glowed brightly. She had recognized him. And in that whole London square, there had not been a happier face. Some would say the sun never shines past Big Ben, but they have not seen his face. He approaches her and she tugs the flower from his hand tossing it aside. And grabs his hands to hers.

“Gods, you expect presents after this!” he flicks the rose back out off the floor and the petals stick on the stem again. She reaches for it but he weaves it into the lapel of her jacket.

“Snape,” she bites barely noticing the beautiful Osaria rose glistening with dew above her freshly melded badge.

“And no horns or tail either.”

“Oh to Hell with the horns.” She cannot help but to kiss his cheek. He seems rather stunned, despite kissing her much more than that. But after his memory returns to him, he leans forward and gives her a very proper welcome. He grasps her back and pulls her inside. Caressing every inch of her curls as they fall from her coiffed hair. Running his fingers up her neck and digging his nose into the soft cheek as he trailed his lips towards her ears.

\--

She pulls back abruptly.

“I am a working witch after all.”

“Well that you are, I almost forgot how uptight you were about your job. Nearly!” He adds the last part after she chides him with her brows.

“The girl can’t go to school without books or clean frocks.”

“I earn enough for her clothes,” Hermione reasons.

“But what will happen when she is admitted to Hogwarts? The economy isn’t growing any better and I can only imagine how much new capes will cost her. Add a wand, a couple of cauldrons and a broomstick-”

“She’s only eight, I will have plenty of time to save. What makes you think I need your galleons to support her?”

“It would be rather helpful. Besides, you were the one who appointed me as your Guardian Devil and I don’t remember losing the title. In fact, I cherish it quite a bit. Just like your little notebooks filled with rules and that tea you brew with your biscuits.”

“I’m sure they have biscuits and notebooks in that cottage of yours in Devon?”

“Well they certainly do but they don’t have that special brand of witch with her curly hair and her whip-smart little tongue. Nor do they have precocious red-headed girls and toads and talking cats. In fact, they don’t have much of what is rather needed by me in that town.”

“And the cottage? You like your ‘quiet and peaceful retirement’”

“Well, apparently there can be too much quiet in four walls.”

“Oh? So if I understand correctly, you’re telling me that you don’t want to be retired anymore?”

“I think the better question is, what do you plan to do with your time off from being London’s new Ministry Auror?”

“I’m sure we can compromise. To the drawing board at five as per usual. And Sev? When I come home from work, do find me another one of those Rubin Bird Leather Notebooks? They really don’t come by often in the stores.”

He mentally prepares himself from that very awkward conversation with Mrs. Diggory and her abominable little hounds. “I’ll see what I can do, Miss Granger.”

Beyond the couple in deep embrace, the bells of St. Martins ringing, the cigar-smoking wizard with dirty pants, the Osaria Rose Gardens, the Ginger Cat and the little red-head staring out of the window, a row of bedlams sit. In their hands, tropical fruits. And from their eyes, the blue juices ooze and their lips curl into a sardonic smile.


	40. Author's Note

Hi everyone!

Thank you for reading and for your feedback. Let me know your thoughts and comments on the story- I love your engagement.

I am working on a new project at the moment: Roh Diamant (Diamond in the Rough) which is the sequel to my Dark Period Drama Harry Potter series. This book follows Hermione, Severus and Draco Malfoy in their adventures (and misadventures) through Magical London. 

I cross-post my stories on Fanfiction.net (@mumumuji) and on Wattpad (@mumumuji) therefore you can also follow me there.

Cheers,


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